Untitled, one.

Today I stood on holy ground. I have never thought that, nor even knew it was possible for me to do so, until I looked out at the English Channel from the sand of Omaha Beach.

The blood of the thousands of American soldiers killed on D-Day, the blood that changed the color of the ocean, saturated the sand until each grain was engorged and could hold no more, mingled with the grass and roots of the forest on the sloping hill above the beach, this blood also consecrated this spot, and the other battle sites all along the coast of Normandy that on that day would open up to swallow the lives of thousands of young men, swallow their lives and swallow all the promise that the future would have held for them, everything they would achieve if not for this war, this place, this enemy that they were thrust against, these boats they were crammed in to, this part of the earth that they very simply had to take away from others, by the use of guns, and explosives, and intimidation, but those others had guns and had explosives and had intimidation as well, and they also had momentum, had a foothold, had the strategic advantage of needing to simply hold ground, wait for the Allies to tire themselves out wading through the ocean waters and then up the beach and then up the hill, dodging bullets and mortars with every step, finally they would make it to where the Nazis were positioned, and only then would we see whose guns, whose explosives, whose intimidation held sway, and on that morning, on the very spot that I was to stand today, 65 years later, thousands of men with limitless promise became corpses, while another thousand became nothing, their bodies were never found, their annihilation was that complete, but they didn't really become nothing, they all became martyrs, and for me, with my toes nestled in the sand that is now their sepulcher, I recognized that they all became gods.

Seeing the waves of the English Channel break on Omaha, and the gorgeous coast and the forest above, it was impossible for me to really picture that day, or to visualize the carnage that existed in all directions. And that's exactly as it should be. The sacrifice these men gave was so that we all need not picture that. But rather that we enjoy our freedom, savor our happiness, and if anything silently acknowledge what the price for our livelihood was. Not all gods ask for tithes or affirmation; for some, a solemn recognition alone suffices.

This stretch of coast is absolutely gorgeous, worthy of being the altar of their deification. And the cemetery above where nearly ten thousand American dead rest, where gods sleep- it is kept immaculate. For this alone to be the case made me swell with gratitude. This cathedral was not abandoned. But as my visit was nearing its end, I saw a team of groundskeepers spread out around the many acres of graves. One man stood above his large mower at the end of a row that was closest to the ocean, closest to the beach below. His frozen position was just enough to catch my attention and I watched as he stood silently, looking at down at what I assumed must be a faulty machine. And then he crossed himself. And what I mistook for confusion was really silent prayer, and he began mowing the grass above the graves of men he held in such regard that even in fulfilling an everyday task, he wanted to show his respect, his gratitude for everything that they died for, everything they gave up and could not live for.

When in the future I think of Omaha Beach, this image will come easy. Not of carnage, but of legacy.


Omaha Beach, as well as Paris and Versailles:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2101951&id=35804394&l=420c3bea04

Paris, in monochrome:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2102144&id=35804394&l=d236612a22