Jim Morrison once wrote, “No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.”

The cemetery lies on the outskirts of Paris. On a brisk autumn morning, I slowly strolled between the headstones. I tried to breathe as deeply as I could.

Gray skies blanketed overhead, as a cold light mist coated my hair and camera lens. Every few steps, I’d notice a flower. Bright. Vibrant. Wilted. But, proud.

It seemed as if each flower was putting on a performance. A still and silent scene. Each petal had mastered its pose, while each stem propped it as if it was a stage hand.

Quiet. Calm. Serenity.

The still peace that certainly drifts up from the ground beneath you. It passes through your body and with gravity, grounds you immensely. In this profound zen, you bond with the dead that lay beneath you.

Dark brown soil plants heaps of soaked concrete. Evergreen pine encircles the earth toned maze. And in the grey of November, the bits of color from deliberately placed bouquets.

I don’t think I’ve appreciated a trivial stroll more. There was nothing, at that moment, more important in the world.