Eishin Chikamatsu shares about honoring and remembering loved ones who have recently passed away.
The family altar was an integral part of my Japanese upbringing. Big portraits of the deceased looking over our dining table. I personally never knew them, but I’d occasionally say hi. There’d always be fresh water, fruit, a bowl of rice and little sugar candies for them along with the scent of burning sandalwood.
I was taught that we’re protected by our ancestors, and I’m lucky enough to still believe that. It’s a gift to feel connected to those who came before us. Once my grandfather left this world, every single morning until I left for college, I’d see my father sit on the purple satin pillow, face the lacquer altar, light an incense, ring the bell, close his eyes and say, “I’m leaving for work.”
A safe return home was never taken for granted. I did not expect to start this practice at age 27 when my late partner suffered a sudden death. I tend to speak in present tense and say, “he’s been dead for 6 years now,” and all of the love he has given me keeps me going to this day. He also pushed me to go back to school to pursue the field of healing arts.
As I became more familiar with the definitions and diagnostic criteria of mental health conditions, I couldn’t help but wonder, is prolonged grief really a pathology? When does sadness become disorderly when the loss is so profound? Yet, society seems to treat most of the things around us – objects, roles, sometimes even people – as disposable and easily replaceable. And then rushes us to move on. Scroll past tragedy, numbing ourselves.