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Jim McCrory

The Glasgow Necropolis Where A Silent City Awaits

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 22 Nov 2024, 11:51



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The Glasgow Necropolis Where A Silent City Awaits

Walking through the Glasgow Necropolis, I am reminded of its stillness as it sits over Mother Glasgow and silently observes the living. The gravestones and monuments are weathered with time, others upgraded by forward generations who tell stories of lives once lived. Each name etched in stone represents someone who walked these streets, shared meals, and whispered secrets under Glasgow's grey skies.

Yet, beneath those stones lie mysteries I cannot fully grasp. These people once laughed, argued, hoped, and dreamed. They travelled, however far their lives allowed, saw sunsets over the Clyde, and perhaps loved or lost in ways as profound as we do now. What strikes me most is the thought of their consciousness—that inner film reel of moments unique to each person. Where has it gone?

Earlier that day, as I arrived in Glasgow, I encountered a group of volunteers raising funds for Pancreatic Cancer Action. They stood resolutely, braving the November chill with their collection buckets and bright smiles. Each one no doubt had a story, perhaps of this malady that robbed them and their family of so much life.

It struck me that at one end of Glasgow, there were people fighting to stave off death, channelling their concerns into hope and action. And yet, here in the Necropolis, I stood among those who had already succumbed. The contrast was sobering—on one hand, the fierce struggle to preserve life; on the other, the stillness of its end.

The Bible speaks of the breath of life, given and then taken away. In Ecclesiastes, we read that the dead know nothing, their plans and thoughts extinguished with their final breath. It’s an arresting image—this idea that what makes us who we are is so intimately tied to the breath God gives us. The people buried here had thoughts as vivid as mine, dreams that seemed so tangible, and inner worlds so rich that they would have resisted reduction to mere dust. And yet, the moment their breath left them, those worlds ceased to exist in the way we understand.

But as I walk these paths, I feel a sense of expectation, not hopelessness. Jesus’ words in John 5:28-29 echo in my mind: “Do not marvel at this; for the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear His voice and come forth.” This promise fills the Necropolis with a strange kind of anticipation. If Jesus’ words are true, then these lives are not extinguished but merely paused, waiting for renewal.

What does it mean to be worthy of such renewal? I think of the struggles these people endured. Their gravestones hint at professions, relationships, and sometimes tragedies. But their worthiness, as Jesus described it, is not measured by accolades or wealth. It’s wrapped up in their relationship with their Creator—the choices they made when confronted with love, kindness, and faith.

The volunteers reminded me of this worthiness. Their fight against cancer was not just about extending days but about honouring the lives that had been lost. Their stories, like those etched in stone at the Necropolis, were filled with love, loss, and resilience. They stood as a reminder that the breath of life is precious and must be cherished.

The Necropolis reminds me that life is fleeting and precious.  But it also whispers of eternity, of a future where these lives may once again unfold in vibrant colour. The struggles we face, the meals we share with loved ones, and the dreams we pursue are not lost forever. They are held in suspension, preserved in the mind of God, who knows the secrets of every heart.

Walking among the graves, I feel a strange kinship with those who lie here. Someday, someone may wander past my resting place and wonder about my inner world, too. But the promise of resurrection bridges the divide between the living and the dead, offering hope that this mystery called consciousness will one day be restored, illuminated by the One who gave it life.



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Jim McCrory

Gooday Japan! Some thoughts on Mono no aware

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 11 Oct 2024, 11:18


Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@jean_vella


 "Dragonfly catcher,

how far have you gone today

in your wandering?"

Chiyo-ni’s haiku speaks of a child catching dragonflies, capturing a tender moment of innocence and play. Yet, there’s an underlying sense of distance and loss, as she had lost her own child. Haiku often distill life’s most profound moments, rooted in nature and impermanence. For poets like Matsuo Bashō, the fleeting beauty of life opens the door to contemplation and what might come after. In his final haiku, Bashō reflects on the end of life with acceptance:

"On a journey, ill,

my dream goes wandering

over withered fields."

Bashō, like a wandering minstrel, found in nature the human condition. His "withered fields" evoke life’s end, yet his dream continues, suggesting a journey beyond. This resonates with my own reflections on the soul’s path.

Yosa Buson, too, captured the sorrow of life’s passing in his haiku:

"The end of it all,

and weeping, in the midst of

the flowers blooming."

Here, the blooming flowers symbolize life’s rhythm, while weeping hints at grief. Even in sorrow, nature’s persistence seems to suggest hope—perhaps life, in some form, endures.

Kobayashi Issa, having lost many loved ones, also wrote of life’s fragility and the yearning for something more:

"This world of dew

is a world of dew—

and yet, and yet..."

Life, like dew, is fleeting, but Issa’s "and yet" leaves room for hope—perhaps there is something beyond the transient world.

Santōka Taneda, who lived a wandering life, also embraced this tension. In one haiku, he wrote:

"My begging bowl—

accepts the falling leaves

of this life."

The falling leaves symbolize the passage of time and acceptance of life’s end. The bowl, a symbol of humility, receives life’s final offering, reflecting the importance of accepting what comes next.

These haikus, rooted in nature and impermanence, invite us to contemplate life’s continuity beyond the physical.

Haiku, in its ability to distil life’s most profound experiences into a few words, leaves room for the mystery of what lies beyond. As I walk along the shore in the early morning, watching the waves rise and fall, I find myself thinking of Bashō’s dream, wandering over withered fields. And like Issa, I carry with me that quiet "and yet," as I continue to reflect on life, death, and the hope that there is something more waiting on the other side. These poets covertly and with considerable discomfort  flew against the concept of Mono no aware.

"Do not marvel at this, but the hour is coming in which all those in the graves will hear my voice and come out; those who have done good to a resurrection of life..." John 5: 28.








 

 


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