My Ritual: Cemetery Drive
In my next post, I’ll discuss the 11 Intentions of Ritual, but I thought it would be helpful to share a personal example of a private ritual. As you read along, I hope this reminds you of your own private rituals that you are willing to share in the comments.
Ever since I got my license and traded my hard-earned paper route savings for a 1984 Honda Accord hatchback, I have found driving to be a welcome escape. Behind the wheel and singing along with the radio or mix tapes was always a comforting place to be. This love of driving and singing evolved into a specific ritual that I still use.
I had my own apartment when I was in graduate school in Lawrence, Kansas around the turn of the millennium. This was my preference, but could also be lonely at times. Furthermore, I was still figuring out what I would do with my life and what I would use my education for. At times, I’d lose perspective on what really mattered and would worry obsessively about insignificant things. When I was feeling weighed down and the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in, I’d take a trip to the cemetery.
It would take me about 30 minutes to drive the rural highways north out of Lawrence to get to Ozawkie Cemetery. This was plenty of time to sing along to several songs. Being a child of the 80s and raised in Iowa, my choice of music would be Tom Petty, Boston, Kansas, Styx, Journey, REO Speedwagon, Toto, Survivor, Def Leppard, Huey Lewis, and more. I’d sing my lungs out the whole way.
Upon arriving, I’d spend another 30 minutes walking slowly among the grave markers and would look at the surrounding trees and lake. I didn't know a soul buried there. This wasn’t a visit to an ancestor; I had a different intention.
Ozawkie Cemetery, Image from: “Google Reviewer”
As I walked, I would look at names and dates. I always noticed dates that matched my own birthday or the birthday days of family and friends. It was interesting to see how names changed over time. I wondered about the children buried there – what had happened and how sad it would be to lose a child. And I grieved for families when I saw multiple children’s markers lined up in a row.
Perhaps the most important question that came to mind was, “What would they tell me if they could?” This was especially relevant when I saw a grave marker with someone who died in their teens or 20s. What did they wish they could have done if they had known their time was limited? What worries would instantly be washed away if they knew they had only a month or a day left. I never find these questions depressing. In fact, they would help me regain perspective – like I was zooming out from the silly minutiae to have a better view of what really mattered.
I would get back in my car. Always a bit more contemplative and in a better mood. Huey and I would sing “The Power of Love” and “Jacob’s Ladder” on the way back. In his book Uh-Oh, Robert Fulghum tells the story of a woman who has lost her way in life. Her psychiatrist writes down a prescription and hands it to her: “‘Spend one hour some Sunday watching the sunrise while walking in a cemetery.’ She did. She got in touch with the big picture again.” Yes. Yes, indeed.
It’s worth taking a moment to break this down. The drive would get me out of my apartment. I’d likely stop at a gas station, buy a can of Mountain Dew, and exchange a few words with the attendant. The sun would hit my skin and my eyes; we know that even brief forays outside improve our mental health. Singing songs I knew by heart helped reset my brain to focus on joy. And singing loudly forced me to breathe deeply. I have often wondered if one of the most powerful effects of music is that it makes us breathe deeply and in a slow rhythm – like tricking us into deep, diaphragmatic breathing, but without boring us to tears.
I would spend time in nature looking at the grass, trees, and nearby lake. I needed a reminder to spend less time worrying about the little things and use that energy to work toward the big things. Looking at the markers was a clear and powerful sign that life is short and few things are guaranteed. Is this a traditional ritual? Nope. No congregation or audience. No candles or holy books. Just a private moment on a Sunday afternoon that made the time, for me at least, holy.
There’s another quote from Fulghum that applies here (this one is in From Beginning to End):
““We all know stories of what happens when people find out they have a limited time to live. Many finally start living well …. Let me announce, then, to you: You have a limited time to live.”
Questions for you: Do you go for drives or walks? When do you sing? What do you do to regain a sense of perspective in your life?