Druidry and bones

I take my bones to the graveyard and I lie on the land, feeling the weight of myself.

These bones are made of limestone, of hill and landscape, and there is empathy between them and the earth.

Below me, the bones of others lie, peaceful and soil embraced. There is empathy between my bones and these bones unknown to me. We are all much alike when it comes down to bones. Hard to tell apart.  The differences between bones are fewer than the differences between lives.

I listen to the soil, to the grass. To whatever it is somewhere beneath me whose sound I cannot name, but who sounds anyway, careless of my ignorance.

There are no rituals today. There are a few muttered prayers to the universe, the land, any gods who might be willing to believe in me even though I struggle to believe in them.

It is a Druidry that lacks for grand revelations. It is the Druidry of grass against my face and something I cannot name in the ground beneath me, and the quiet presences of the hundred years dead, and the ancient history of Romans on this graveyard site and all that has been here alongside these known moments in history.

This is the Druidry of questions with no particular answers. But I can lie down amongst the unnamed dead, whose stories are forgotten. Not because I am able to channel their stories or speak for them, but because it seems meaningful to me to be with them, story-less, honouring a shared humanity, knowing that I will disappear into the mists of history in time as well. Sometimes it is powerful indeed to make space for my own insignificance, the fleeting nature of my being.

I do not think the land much notices me, or cares about me. And yet, nonetheless the land holds me, and lets me stay, and does not mind. It is a blessing to be able to exist. The land does not much care who I am or what I have done or what I believe. It will take my bones when I am dead. It holds my bones while I live. It is inside my bones. Separate and together.

I take my bones to the graveyard – a privilege for the living. To choose to go, and choose to return and to lie in stillness for a while.