I’m a what? After many decades of life, I am just beginning to learn some new things about myself and some new terms to apply to myself. In my previous post I was discussing my existential angst and my thanatophobia. And, after continuing to study where I’m at these days and what terms may be used to describe my current state of affairs, I came up with some new revelations.
My latest discovery is that I am a taphophile. A taphophile, I tell you. Who knew? Certainly not me, well, not until I really thought about it. Oh, if you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, a taphophile is a “tombstone tourist.” Or a cemetery enthusiast. Strange terms to apply to myself.
As I think about it, though, I guess it’s true and I own up to it. I mentioned in previous posts that death experiences always seemed to have surrounded me and in college, one of my pleasant experiences was strolling through a cemetery near my college campus. It was a time of peace and contemplation for me for those four years on campus.
For one summer, I stayed in Seattle (I was attending college in Seattle, but my home was in Los Angeles) and accepted an offer to be a night watchman and live in an apartment at a mortuary in downtown Seattle. I would also assist in some of the functions and work at the mortuary. And, yes, that could be at times a bit “creepy.” But, also, I seemed to enjoy the unique experience of living and working in the place.
So, skipping ahead to today’s life in retirement and my current activities, I’m finding I still enjoy walks through local cemeteries and the contemplative and peaceful hikes and times spent there among the grave sites. Weird? Perhaps. I remember my dad once told me he lived near a cemetery at one time, and he could not stand it. He said he could always “smell death” and it almost made him sick. I guess he was not a taphophile.
So, what is it that attracts me to this unusual practice of being a tombstone tourist? Well, besides the peace and quiet of the graveyard, I enjoy looking at the tombstones or grave markers and noticing sometimes interesting comments and statements of those interred there. Also, just looking at the many, many graves I think about all these people (well, former people) and the lives they all lived. So many different, extremely different lives. Their lives are over. What was it all about, these thousands of lives? Oh, there is my existential angst, again. What is it all about?
Our lives. We’re created, we’re here for a while, and then we are gone. Happens to all of us. Yes, all of us. What’s my life about? What’s your life about? Did we do it right while we were here? There were many miserable lives lived, but also many wonderful lives lived. How do you rate or classify your life here for that brief time you were given?
I’ve stated in many blog posts that my life has been very good, even with the rough spots here and there. I dreamed and I achieved my dreams. I loved and have been loved. I wish it didn’t have to end, but I don’t get to control that aspect of life. Those graveyard strolls make me think on these things, not that they give me many answers. The mystery just continues. I have to live in the mystery of it all, like we all do. Religion and philosophy may give us some comfort, but really…we don’t know what it’s all about, do we?
Wally