January 12, 2020 - The Yellow Ribbon

There is an old cemetery not far from where I live.  No one goes there anymore, and it is not accepting new guests.  In fact, it has not accepted new members for a very, very long time with the newest grave being from the late 1800s and the oldest from the very early 1700s.  Here in Maine in the far north of New England, there is a lot of forgotten history.  Most Americans are taught that the first pilgrims came on the Mayflower in 1620, but perhaps their teachers were never told about the Popham Colony that came to New England in 1607 and settled in what is known today as Phippsburg, Maine.  No matter.  People will adopt the stories they choose.

But this is not a story about Phippsburg or colonists or quaint pilgrims—or who settled where first and never lived to see the rising sun.  It is a story about a yellow ribbon on a tree at an old forgotten cemetery in Maine.  You know the old custom?  A woman waits for her lover to return from far away—in place or mind or heart, it does not matter because distance is distance.  She displays a yellow ribbon so he will know that not only has she been faithful but she wants him back as well.  Thus, she begins her vigil.

Je sais que tu m'attends.

I have often wondered who ties the ribbon on the tree at the cemetery.  I have always hoped I might somehow catch her in the act.  Every now and then when the ribbon becomes too ragged, it will be removed and a new one will be set in its place, so I know she is out there with her ribbons.  She is waiting for his return.  Faithfully.  And I am waiting for her, just as faithfully.

What an odd place to carry out this ritual, though, a cemetery that has not been in use for well over 100 years.  Surely the man is now dead?  And the woman who waits for him, surely she is dead as well?  But the ribbon says no.  She has put it in a place where he is sure to see it.  Of course, you know this is how it must be done.  It would not do at all to place it where he cannot see it.  No, not at all, and I am quite certain the ribbon is in the perfect spot.  It is just a matter of time.  We must be patient.

If I could have begun my life at the beginning of my life, I might have saved myself a lot of time.  But this is not how the Universe works.  It took a long time for my eyes to fully open, and I am given to understand that I am quite lucky since the eyes of most people never open at all.  I had many lessons to learn, though, not the least of which is that true love anchors one soul to another soul throughout all of eternity.  In the end, I have been an unwilling but very good student.  But, oh, the time that was wasted . . .  We always have plenty of time to do it all, until we find we have not a moment left to waste.

Now that I am older and have long since passed the halfway mark on the road of life, all the pomp and circumstance seems to have faded away.  It was just faerie glamor anyhow.  The road is as stark as ever it was, only now I can see it for what it is instead of being distracted by the merchant’s shiny baubles and Caesar’s golden counting house.  I used to run from the emptiness and plainness and hard work of it all.  Now I find it gives me great comfort to continue on that seemingly bleak path and to know the truth.

Which does set one free, after all.  Things have ended up being much simpler than I thought they would have.  Above all, patience is the key to unlock almost anything.  Pushing, pulling, ranting, raving, lying, dishonesty, and betrayal—these are all for the once-borns.  Thankfully, that is not my path and never was. 

So when the twilight comes on certain days, I will quietly leave my house in a semi-trance and walk down to the old cemetery.  I will remove the worn old yellow ribbon and put a new one in its place, as I have always done, because I know he will see it.  Even now he sees it, because death has never stopped love before, not in all the history of the world has it been able to do that.  And he is not a once-born either.  As eagerly as I hang the ribbon, so too has he searched for it.  Patience is Power.  The ritual stands.