Spreading Ashes and Hugging Photographs

Hooray, classes are over, I've got four, hopefully easy, finals to write and then summer! I'll be moving into an apartment with Jeremy in May. Right downtown, a 10 minute walk to work, so it looks like it'll be an exciting and relaxing summer for us. Happy Easter Everyone...

Ten years ago, Vince, an old childhood friend, had a brother commit suicide. It was done in the garage with the car running, Ryan’s suicide that is. There was no note and like with most deaths, no explanation.

In catholic-Filipino culture, which is what my friend and I are, prayers take place for nine days in a row after the death of a loved one. In these nine days, with the funeral and memorial service included, I witnessed and experienced many things. Since then, I have seen and practiced these things myself from time to time. These “things” of which I speak shall be described from here on.

I. As I was driving to the prayers at Vince’s house one evening, I was grief-stricken and thinking about Ryan. I began to speak aloud as if he were present with me in the car, asking him to give me a signal so I would know that he is better off wherever he may be. As I did this, the radio was quietly playing Whitney Houston’s I Believe in You and Me. Then, unexpectedly it became quite loud as if the volume had been cranked to high. The numbers on the clock illuminated itself much more than usual to a bright green! Within the two seconds of this phenomenon, Whitney Houston, at the top of her lungs sang the lyrics, “I believe in miracles!” I was astonished. Afterwards, my clock no longer displayed the time and the volume returned to normal. I later discovered that I had merely blown a fuse.

II. One evening at the funeral parlor, Vince, alone in the chapel, stood over his dead brother’s body and began speaking to it. I do not know what words were spoken because I was peering in through the doorway. Vince took off his old, torn, and dirty baseball cap that he had owned and cherished for years, he looked at it one last time and then placed it by the body’s side. It will stay there forever.

III. The day of Ryan’s burial I sat and watched his uncle stroke the body’s hair while he sobbed and cried out repeatedly, “Ryan… Ryan… Ryan”.

IV. A couple of years ago, I had met Melanie, a backpacker I encountered while traveling through India. She kept a small canister of her stepfather Gary’s ashes within her rucksack. It was her intention to spread the ashes on the earth, in front of beautiful locations throughout Asia. Melanie, unlike myself, did not believe in a god, or a heaven, or really had any concept of life after death. In fact, she had no idea what had happened to her stepfather once he died. It was an honor to be with her three of the five times that she practiced her ritual. Once she would open the canister she would begin speaking to the black, gritty ashes, as if the ashes were Gary himself. She would go on to explain to the black dust that “this is where you’ll be for the rest of your days, in front of the (Himalayan mountains, Taj Mahal, Ganges river, Great Wall of China, Angkor Wat).” Then, as she would spread the ashes, she would tear up, say her goodbyes and wish him well.

V. Every November first is a national holiday called “All Saints Day” in the Philippines. This day consists of all Filipinos throughout the country going to the cemetery to visit with their loved ones who have passed away. Not only will they bring themselves, but they will bring sleeping bags, tents, candles, playing cards, chairs, bamboo mats to sit on, and food, lots of food that is cooked the previous day, and bowls, plates and cutlery. Their “visit” will last close to twenty-four hours, consisting of prayers, celebrations, talking to the headstone with a candle lit by its side, and just everyday conversation with the other relatives whom have all gathered. To the outsider, it would appear as though they are just camping out at the cemetery and speaking to cement.

VI. My grandmother passed away two years and six days ago from today. Also, February 10, 2006 would have been her eighty-eighth birthday. In recognition of that day, I purchased her a birthday gift; some flowers, and I placed them by her picture inside my house. As I looked at the picture I began speaking to it, this piece of colored paper, entrapped within glass and a wooden frame. “Happy birthday Lola” I said, “I miss and love you. I can’t believe how long it’s been.” I then went on to pick up the picture frame and hugged it, hoping that it would return my hug and provide me with warmth, as grandmothers do. Tears began to fall from my eyes and saliva from my mouth.

I will never know if Ryan communicated with me that evening inside my car, as I reached out to him through thought and voice. I do not know if Ryan will wear Vince’s hat in heaven, or wherever he might be right now. And, I do not know what function his uncle had performed as he stroked Ryan’s hair and called out his name.
Is Melanie’s stepfather now only the gritty ashes which are embedded at five different sites throughout Asia, staring at great landmarks? Why would Melanie speak to black dust in such an intimate fashion? As well, what is the point of so many Filipinos crowding around a cemetery plot for hours upon hours, talking to a cement headstone while having a picnic?

I realize that my grandmother was not able to smell the flowers I bought for her birthday, nor was she able to wrap her arms around me like she so fondly used to when I was young. So what is the point in performing such odd acts to dead, inanimate objects? I do not think that we truly believe we are speaking to the actual person, nor does their soul possess their lifeless body, photograph, ashes or headstone. However, we are creating meaning for ourselves. It is a way to comfort our own emotions, our own heart which still beats. There is no other way for us to communicate with a being we once laughed, loved, and shared with, so we continue to do so in our own unique ways. We make up our own explanations to the mysteries of death and believe them to be true.

I choose to believe that Ryan did indeed send me a signal that evening when the fuse had blown in my car while I spoke to him. Furthermore, when I hugged a colored photograph of my grandmother on her would-be birthday, I cried because I felt her warmth.