A Shovel full of Earth  by Melitta Haslund

A few shovel fulls
of earth
   await humbly.
Dark brown as only
   earth can be --
Dug from the fragrant depths.


How shall we live
 this life?
   And isn’t it
  much grander
than this in the end?


No -- the splendor
  is right here,
   in the dirt,
   in the soil
  that can grow
   all we need
  miraculously
and without fanfare.
  With or without us,
   it nourishes life
verdantly.


And so
I shall go, in time, as all
go
   and greet
earth
   with gratitude
    and pray I
   am worthy
and have served
    her well.

Today we dedicate our Memorial Garden; this place so many years in the making. It began to take form when Bobbi Katz wanted to place her son Josh’s ashes here and made a contribution toward a Memorial Garden. Bill and Ellen Behuniak followed and added more to the fund. Karl Beard held numerous (some might say endless) input gatherings and somehow managed to draw all our ideas into a coherent whole. Which then changed and eventually became what we see: a peaceful circle of inviting rocks, a rustic gate leading to a path that winds around the pond and into the field and back again. A bench. Thanks to the effort of all of you who have worked so hard to create this garden.

It has become a place of beauty and peace and remembrance. It connects us one to the others and all to the earth. This land, which has provided a home for this congregation since 1978, will provide a home for us after death. The ashes of members and friends and their loved ones will be buried or scattered here. A common marker will keep the names. A Book of Remembrance will bring them to life.

Writer Terry Tempest Williams tells a wonderful story that explains why we would create this garden. " . . . I entered the procession . . . walking toward the cemetery. We followed the pathway of petals--marigold petals sprinkled so the Dead could follow. The iron gates were open. Hundreds of candles were flickering as families left offerings on the graves of their kin: photographs, flowers and food; . . . . There were no tears here. A crescent moon rose above the mountains, a blood-red sickle. Porque esta aqui? Asked the old woman whose arms were wide with marigolds. I looked up and stood. Mi madre esta muerta. She points down, Aqui? No, no aqui--not here I try to explain in poor Spanish. She is buried back home, Los Estados Unidos, but this is a good place to remember her. We both pause. The woman motions me to another place in the cemetery. I follow her until she turns around. She slowly sweeps her hand across five or six graves. Mi familia, she says smiling. Mi esposo, mi madre y padre, mis ninos. Then her hand moves up as she recklessly waves to the sky. . . . I translate her words. Very beautiful--this sky above us. . . with clouds like roses . . . the Dead are among us. She hands me a marigold. Gracias, I say to her. This is the flower my mother planted each spring."

With this garden we ground ourselves, literally. We know, deep in our flesh, the sure cycles of nature, the fit of a human lifespan into the seasons of the generations, the earth and the universe; an awesome design. From dust to dust, from spirit to spirit, from eternity to eternity. Between these spans a human life fits. With this garden we ground ourselves in our past and so better savor the present. With this garden we mark our history and so lift up the continuity of our congregation. With this garden we remember those dear to us, our friends and family.

Dedication We, members and friends of this Unitarian Universalist Congregation of the Catskills dedicate this Memorial Garden, tenderly and thoughtfully created for the benefit of members and friends, past, present and future. May it receive our ashes and carry them back to the earth. May it be a symbol of harmony, love, and reconciliation. May we find in it a place for reflection and peace. May we care for it well as it will surely care well for us. May it be so.

Breaths (words adapted from a poem by Birago Diop/music Ysaya Barnwell)

9am and11am: I read poem and Bobbi places Josh’s ashes

11am: I read the words on the plaque and plant tree

adapted from Nancy Wood

Hold on to what is good 
even if it is 
a handful of earth. 


Hold on to what you believe 
even if it is 
a tree which stands by itself. 


Hold on to what you must do 
even if it is 
a long way from here. 


Hold on to (each other’s) hand even when 
(you have gone away.) 

Benediction

People place a trowel full of earth by the tree, in the Jewish custom, as they return into the sanctuary