i want to be a verb
I found myself holding back tears in a graveyard last summer. I was alone and in London for the first time.
The night prior while perusing Google Maps, I stumbled onto a pin that leapt out at me. It was only a 20 minute walk away.
So there I was the next morning, standing in front of Karl Marx’s tomb. A handful of others had also gathered to see him. The air was hushed and respective. People chatted quietly, taking photos in turns. I kept thinking about the legacy he left, living in each of us at different intervals and volumes. still living.
The tomb was larger than life. At the top, engraved in gold lettering read -
“Workers of all lands unite”
A jolt of electricity flooded me as I imagined the implications of this. what if. what if.
But this is not what ultimately got me.
I left Marx and continued to explore the premises. The cemetery was busier now, yet still reserved, cognizant of place. At one point I heard two women audibly laughing. Curiosity piqued, I waited for them to disperse and walked over.
They had been standing in front of this gravesite, the resting place of Patrick Caulfield, English painter and printmaker.
Comic relief from the afterlife. well played.
I stood and watched others discover him. Most faces broke out into huge, shit-eating grins. People left jovial.
We were changed for having seen it.
I eventually made a loop, rounding back towards Marx. Suddenly a slew of headstones came into focus for the first time. I didn’t recognize names, but their words were palpable. I’d never seen anything like it.
lifelong comrades
revolutionary
thinker
activist
philosopher
valiant fighter against racism and imperialism
I felt tingling as I took them in, each building on the last.
insightful
reflective
involved
vital presence
loving, never boring
quest for knowledge
unquenchable curiosity
knew
how
to
seize
the
day.
The cemetery was alive, its inhabitants screaming.
This is when the swell of emotions hit. I thought I had come to observe the dead, but there I was, learning how to live.
These people had been verbs, had made dents in their minuscule pockets of time. I had walked right into one of their fissures. God, I wanted to be a verb.
I want my life to be a verb.
So I am getting to work.
I’ve spent too long waiting for the winning combination of circumstances. waiting to feel better, different. as if out of the blue, I might one day be knighted. Then I’d really begin.
But no one is coming. My tired laurels no longer provide rest. I am sick of trafficking in lifeless endeavors.
I am getting to work.
Daily practice is where I meet my own mortality. my finitude. my mediocrity.
But I am also finding what previously eluded me. That everything worth having is found in quiet, repetitive work. The gifts are buried in the toil.
Becoming a verb is an inside job.
I am getting to work.