There is a woman crying somewhere behind me, mourning. I cannot see her—I am sitting in an alcove, alone. It is fitting for October, the month celebrating everything morbid, the sky is overcast and dreary. Maybe it will soon rain. Then we’ll leave and it will be silent again.
As I write, two falcons have swooped dangerously near my head. I’ve never seen a falcon so close. The cat-squirrel and I had a staring contest; he decided I was no threat and has been scampering around scaring off the birds. I’m just waiting for a rabbit to peek out his head. They are everywhere here. My father chose this spot—a quiet cemetery nestled in the east foothills of Provo with sweeping views of the valley.
Driving the winding road this afternoon, I came with purpose. Solitude. Tranquility. This morning we discussed death rituals in China. We discussed the ideologies, myth, magic, and religion of death and dying in China. It drove me here. I am unfocused and angry.
It is ironic that I would seek refuge at the foot of my father’s grave. He died three years ago this month and I still haven’t gotten over the shock of seeing him unnaturally age beyond his years and watch his heart beat for the last time. I think of the journey I have been on since that day—the years I cannot remember before he died and the years since that I’ve spent remembering: I mean to live.
I am reminded to live well visiting my father.
Each culture deals with death and the rituals of death differently. In what ways do you view death? Is it, like me, associated with feelings of good life to the living, an increase in character, or a reverence of what is gone and a respect and/or loss for the past or even anger? Collectively, what does that do to us, for us, individually and as a society?
