Illustration by Alex Siklos
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I am at eye level with the majestic bird and not far away. I can’t help but meet its gaze, but only briefly; I don’t want to appear threatening. I pull out my phone and capture a photo. It is a stunning golden hawk, perched atop an almost century-old upright headstone, its talons wrapped over the curvature of the limestone tablet. I text the photo to my mom, someone who is equally awed by such spectacular natural sightings.
My mom is quick to respond and, while she is thrilled about my sighting, she is even more interested in my location: “Are you in a cemetery?”
Yes, I was, and I had almost forgotten. To my mom, that was the most unusual part of the photo but to me, walking in a cemetery had become a part of my everyday life, and a highlight at that.
I had recently moved to Toronto with my husband and children and lived in a dense and bustling part of the city – Midtown. As I was continually driving my kids through this part of the city, I kept passing the sprawling Mount Pleasant Cemetery. It was hard not to notice as it spans many city blocks and has a footprint of over 200 acres.
I drove by it so often that I became curious about driving right on through (a narrow road snakes through the grounds) or entering on foot – was it permissible? My curiosity piqued, I kept observing from afar for many months. I noticed that the cemetery was regularly frequented by cyclists, joggers and people walking dogs.
Scattering Dad’s ashes in the Atlantic didn’t go as planned, but it brought me comfort
On a particularly inviting spring day I entered the grounds on foot, my two dogs in tow. I immediately noticed signs setting forth rules for users of the space telling me that as long as I didn’t “sprint” or “bike race” and acted with “reverence and respect” I could enjoy the premises. Not a problem; I continued forth and kept my dogs leashed.
It didn’t take long to feel enveloped by the old growth trees and landscaped gardens. The canopy of deciduous branches and the overall density of the vegetation served to block out the blaring horns, thumping subway and jarring construction noises of the surrounding city. A rare patch of tranquility within a swarming city merely steps away.
My ears tuned into the slow drips of leaky landscaping faucets, the tiny chirps of avian inhabitants and the rustling footsteps of chipmunks and squirrels. I did not feel my usual compulsion to plug into my device but, rather, to just listen to this world. That attunement allowed other senses to open up. I noted a subtle scent – something heady yet fresh, suggestive of newness and fragility as buds and blooms were emerging in this season of renewal.
As I rounded bends, I started to take in the more funereal aspects. Having never spent much time in any cemetery, I wasn’t sure how I would feel about spending prolonged time in one. What I found was that my mind didn’t gravitate toward anything sombre or grim. I even tried forcing myself to think about death and dying but my mind wouldn’t co-operate.
When it was time to stop driving, handing over my licence wasn’t as hard as I’d feared
In my, now regular, walks through the cemetery I have come to understand why my mind doesn’t veer toward morbid thoughts. The cemetery is a place that exudes too much life. The land itself is overflowing with a vibrant aliveness evident from beyond its gates and it was what drew me there in the first place.
It is also a place of human connection. As a community hub connecting neighbouring residents it doesn’t just connect current ones, but it also bridges past and present.
Memorial tributes and plaques that dot the grounds do more than honour important figures and events. These markers provide visitors with a glimpse into who their past neighbours were, and provide a sense of reanimation. Every day I walk by prime ministers (William Lyon Mackenzie King and John Turner), business leaders (the Westons), war veterans and artists (Glenn Gould) and I have started to feel a unique kinship to these neighbours.
Tombstones convey so much: one’s provenance, family members and sometimes terms of endearment (“mumsey”), occupations or interests. Etched poetry and religious verses are revealing – one I often pass features a Maya Angelou quote: “Let nothing dim the light that shines from within.” Just because a person has passed away doesn’t mean they fade away; my daily walks have illuminated that.
Walking in the spirited Mount Pleasant Cemetery feels like a bit of a well-kept secret. And just like with any good secret I am asked to keep, I am dying to tell someone, but I also don’t want anyone to know.
Kristi Kasper lives in Toronto.