“We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.” - Confucius
Until my 20s, I always held my breath when I drove past a cemetery.
The habit formed in childhood – the result of an old, hometown superstition.
Normally, the process was simple. If a classmate spotted a green patch with gray dots approaching, they’d alert everyone around them. Word would quickly spread. Everyone would inhale, wait 5-10 seconds to pass by the cemetery, and then exhale. Simple enough. This routine was so familiar that conversations would resume afterwards as if nothing had happened.
That is, unless we hit a red light. Then, a silent panic would sweep through the bus: every set of eyes fixed on the traffic light, mouths silently counting the seconds, and complexions slowly coming to resemble ripe nectarines. Finally, once we passed the last tombstone, cathartic gasps would fill the bus. The next 30 seconds must have sounded like a choir of asthmatics.
The dramatic, collective choreography of the superstition started to fade in high school, but most of us continued to observe it silently. You know, just to be safe.
Even today, ten years after high school, I still notice the impulse to inhale when I see a cemetery approaching. But now the impulse is accompanied with a recurring thought: each tombstone represents a life that, at one point, was just as real and vivid and visceral as mine is now.
The thought seems both obviously true and utterly impossible. How can it be that all of the vibrance and nuance of a life — a person with their own story, their own family and relationships, their own triumphs and failures, their own quiet Sundays — could now be reduced to the silence of an etched gravel slab? How is that possible? How could that possibly be possible?
And there is a sea of them. Column after column. Row after row. As common as fallen leaves in autumn.
My mind can’t make sense of it. It feels like I’m trying to divide by zero or grasp infinity.
Wandering
In September, I rented a small cabin in Hudson Valley for a month-long retreat. On my morning commute to the local diner, I’d pass a small cemetery, and eventually, my curiosity piqued. I pressed the brakes, turned onto the narrow gravel road, and chose one of the two parking spots.
As I wandered, I learned there are 4 kinds of tombstones: the normal, the expensive, the decorated, and the forgotten.
I intentionally avoided the forgotten tombstones – the ones off on their own, blanketed in moss and weeds, surrounded by untrodden grass. When I allowed myself to notice them, I struggled to steady my gaze on them for more than a few moments. It was too much to bear. It scratched the deepest fears within me – within all of us. To be alone. To be forgotten.
Instead, my eyes naturally drifted toward two other types: the expensive and the decorated tombstones. Between the two, I favored the decorated ones. An expensive tombstone tells you one characteristic of its owner, but a recently decorated one tells you a story. It tells you the person's passing is still warm in the heart of someone living. It tells you they are, in some sense, still alive in the flickering memories of someone that loved them.
As I wandered through the rows, I noticed a weathered tombstone covered with newly placed Halloween decorations. A few plastic jack-o-lanterns overflowing with candy. A couple small, ripe pumpkins. A troupe of children’s toys – fluffy white ghosts and smiling toy spiders.
I checked my watch: September 21st. Halloween was still over a month away.
I stood confused until I looked down at the tombstone. Her name was Elizabeth. Born in 2001, passed in 2005.
17 years ago.
Suddenly, the static scene in front of me transformed, and a story unfolded in its wake. One of tragedy and parental devotion, mourning and decades-long commitment. A story of greater pain and greater love than I have ever known.
A New Ritual
We tend to source modern wisdom from spiritual traditions, religion, books, wellness gurus, and, more recently, fitness instructors. But a modest cemetery may be the greatest teacher we have. Perhaps it can wordlessly convey the full breadth of beauty and tragedy in a human life. Perhaps it can remind us of everything we truly need to know, but often fail to live by.
Those of you versed in Buddhism may have noticed the irony in the superstition I mentioned earlier. In Buddhism, the breath is a sign of impermanence. It’s a constant reminder that everything, from a single breath to a single life, arises and falls away. So, by holding our breath in front of a cemetery, it’s as if we are resisting the inevitable truth that everything – and everyone – is fleeting.
When I pass by a cemetery now, I make a conscious effort to continue breathing slowly and evenly. And at the end of each exhale, a simple mantra:
One less.
Thanks for reading,
Mark
Meditation of the Week: I know thinking about mortality may seem morbid, but afterwards I feel more alive than ever. It’s like a cold plunge for the spirit, washing away my habituated indifference to the marvels of day-to-day life. If you’re interested in practicing on your own, I’d recommend this 10-minute meditation on Insight Timer. If podcasts are more your thing, check out this 10% Happier conversation with Dan Harris and Nikki Mirghafori (starting around 40:00). Finally, there’s always the classic, Tuesdays With Morrie.
Thank you for writing this, Mark. It was an eye-opening read.
In Hindu communities, we don't necessarily have cemeteries -- we burn the bodies of our dead loved ones, and throw their ashes in the Ganges.
In my mind, this represents the stoic aspect of the Indic religions, the aspect of not getting excessively attached to things as excessive attachment leads to excessive pain. As someone who gets attached very fast to things, coming to terms with this inevitable future of mine is a little difficult. This piece was a great read and gave a much needed perspective on mortality.