A long dark weekend in January.  Last Monday, I was listening to Gospel music on the radio playing in honor of Martin Luther King Day when my friend called me for a walk in the park.  I convinced her we should go to Greenwood Cemetary instead of Prospect Park.  My husband and I have become regular Greenwood cemetary goers as it is the most peaceful place in Brooklyn to be.  It is also one of the rare spots in the city where you can actually hear silence. 

“Nothing in the universe resembles god so much as silence.” –Meiser Eckhardt

My husband says he prefers the company of the dead, over the Park Slope stroller-pushers and joggers that inhabit Prospect Park.  Call me morbid, but I sometimes agree.

I’ve been a cemetary goer since I was in my teens.  Once when I was in high school I found a tombstone with my name KAREN P. SORENSEN carved on it.  A woman, like me, who had lived and died one hundred years ago.  Seeing that etched in stone had etched something in my consciousness at a young age.  I realized at that moment that life was passing by, and passing quickly.  I had better make the most of the moments I had.  Visiting cemetaries had also gotten me interested in poetry, and the words of the dead.  I admired the great thinkers who composed poetry that could stand the test of time.  They could summon words that outlived even their physical existence.  People like Kahlil Gibran who was a 13^th century mystic whose powerful words still move us hundreds of years after his death.

“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Growing up in Racine, Wisconsin, a depressed Midwestern city with very few places for teens to hang out the cemetary had been a place to go and think.  It had offered a space for contemplation.  For this reason I still think it is an ideal place to visit with someone you love.  Being in a graveyard you can’t help but have a rich and meaningful conversation.  How can you not think of eternal things when you are passing by tombstones.

When I visit the cemetary with my husband we quietly walk and honor the dead.  We read the names off the stones, noticing birth and death dates.  My imagination takes hold as I think about the story of their lives.  Often there is a family all buried together their graves spaced gently apart.  Sometimes a couple will get a tombstone together.  The husband’s name will be carved with his death date.  Beside this there will be a blank space for the wife’s name and date waiting for the day when she passes.

Seeing such a thing makes time together feel even more precious. 

So Monday, I took a walk with my friend who was visiting Greenwood for the first time.   She admired all the tombs and statues as we talked about relationships, and our dreams for the future.  She told me about the love she craves, and I spoke about the baby I hope I will someday have.  My friend is wild, passionate and never follows any rules. 

When I am with her I feel reckless, and I throw caution to the wind.  We meandered up and down and through the cemetary’s many paths losing our way.  If I had been walking alone I would not have strayed so far, but with her I lost track of the time.   We both knew that the sun was setting and the gates would close at five.  But it was a spectacular sunset and it was so peaceful to be there.  Suddenly I checked my cell phone for the time and we realized we had five minutes to find our way out. 

I have no sense of direction at all so I led us in the wrong way for quite awhile, until she took over. Eventually at 5:08, we got to the gothic spired gates and found our car and started off.   We made it through the main gates but realized driving down the road that the twenty foot high metal outer gate was securely locked with a chain.

We were shut-ins, and in a panic I thought that we might spend the night in the cemetary.  Which wouldn’t be entirely bad because it would be an experience, and it would make a funny story.  But luckily we called the emergency hotline and a bemused patrol man eventually came to our rescue.  He did make us wait for quite awhile and I got the feeling that this sort of thing happened more than occassionally and when it did he drew it out.  Relishing the fact that he was the only one with a key to the gates of the ‘city of the dead.’

Last November, I was laid off.  Trying to claim state benefits from the NY Department of Labor could only be described as a Kafkaesque nightmare.  The websites and phone systems broke down regularly as the sea of jobless New Yorkers swelled.  It took me over three days on the ‘help line’ to get through to another living, breathing human being.  Next, I received a threatening letter calling me in for obligatory ‘career counseling.’  If I didn’t attend this crucial session my benefits would be terminated. 

At the office in downtown Brooklyn, I came face-to-face with a frowning woman sitting at the front desk.  It was clear she didn’t like her job or human interaction of any kind. Without eye contact, she thrust a form in my hand saying vaguely, “Take a seat.”  I had no idea what I was waiting for or how long it would be.  The cloud of dust in the air was probably responsible for the foul moods and general malaise.  With the unprecedented crush of newly jobless New Yorkers, the offices badly needed an upgrade and an infusion of positive energy. The latest numbers now show 15.4 million Americans collecting unemployment benefits, a 40-year high—400,000 of them from New York State.  I figured the least they could do was give the office a fresh coat of paint to offer some small semblance of hope.

As I daydreamed painting the walls red, a woman appeared.  She was a vibrant black woman with a head of tightly-rolled curls radiating around her smiling face.  She wore a vermillion sweater with a draping cowl neck and enormous gold earrings.  This woman is in charge, I thought to myself.  At that moment, I decided I wanted to be in her workshop.  She instructed all of us to stand up.  I was told to report to classroom number 3.

Like all the others, Room 3 was dreary and comfortless. It didn’t take long for the small space to crowd with people; a sporty young man with a backpack, a polished lady with a briefcase, and a middle-aged matron passed by. We were a wildly diverse mix, but we all had the same expression plastered on our faces—a mixture of fear and dread.

The vibrant woman reappeared like a magic trick.  Her electric presence crackled, filling the deadened room with life.  She spoke intimately, almost conspiratorially, telling us her name, Melony.  Melony closed the door, saying she needed her privacy to speak freely.  She continued, “I have my own way of doing things that are a little different than other people in the NY Department of Labor offices.  At 52, I’ve had countless jobs over the years.  I know what you are going through.  I’ve sat where you are sitting now.  And I know how difficult it can be when you lose your employment: especially in these trying economic times.  But I just want you all to know that at this moment you have an opportunity to redefine yourself.  Please, use this time to clarify your dreams.” 

She had our attention.  “I also want to offer you all a little advice; Treat everyone you meet as positively as you can, and magic things will happen.”

“Every day,” she said, “I go to the same convenience store to get a coffee.  The owner of the shop and I have become friends.  Just before the holidays, I stopped by his store.  He reached behind the counter and said, “I have something for you, don’t open it until Christmas.”  I took his mysterious package, thanked him and wished him ‘Happy Holidays.’  Both of us were spending the holidays alone, far from our families.  His were thousands of miles away in the Middle East, while mine were in Pittsburgh.”

“I headed over to the post office to get the mail that I had been looking forward to receiving all week.  When I arrived, I found that it was closed.  I returned home sad that, not only would I not see my family, I would also not have any of their presents to open.  When I got home, I remembered the shop owner and his mysterious gift. Inside, I found an elegant box.  On Christmas, I opened the lid, and found a sparkling silver bracelet with a pendant that said ‘Mom.’  The homesick shop owner had started calling me that recently.  I was so touched by this gift because I had never been able to have any children of my own.  His gift was also the only one I received that Christmas, and for that reason it was all the more special.”  She smiled and held up her wrist and jangling silver bracelet.

Touched by her story, an embarrassing trickle started streaming down my face.  She noticed it and looked at me with motherly concern.  Sitting in classroom number 3, I was simply overwhelmed by the unexpected warmth of her spirit.  It radiated through the bleak room and penetrated the souls of all us weary people. 

On the way out, she mentioned she was a writer, and that one of her essays was about to be published. I helped myself to a photocopy she made available to whoever was interested.  She gave me a hug and wished me luck.  On the subway home, I retrieved her essay and noticed she used a pen name; Miss Mellie Rainbow.  I laughed and thought how fitting it was.  Amidst the hopeless doom of the unemployment offices she had emerged from the darkness and dust like a walking ray of light.