Rituals
Blink eight times.
“You’re sitting on a bench. A completely normal bench. If you have feet, they are now touching the ground. Your head is up and your feet are down. Grounded. Your next breath is deep and travels from your mouth, your head, down through your belly into your legs and into the ground. The place you’re sitting is important for many residents. This is where their dead rest. They can come here to talk to them. If you squint your eyes, you will see three figures standing on a stone slab.
They form a triangle and are facing one another. It’s a bit windy, so you understand their singing only in gusts—and by “understand” I mean you can hear the tonal sequences. The Three are always here, keeping up the tone. Well, not these three particular individuals. Look to your left: do you see the three people walking through the entrance gate? It’s their shift change. This relatively new tradition can be observed at all times. “No soul left alone, no dead left unmourned, no dying person will be silenced any longer.” What brought the Three together? I’m not sure. I think they are mourning and celebrating at the same time. And they like to sing? Perhaps there was once a time when a lot of people died alone, or their deaths were not taken seriously? And this is now a way of protesting it? I’m not sure—there hasn’t been much written about it yet. Now the six of them are humming in unison. It sounds like 60,000 bees buzzing. And they pick up the tone. The Three carry this buzzing sound around with them until it dies away. The new arrivals begin their shift only after they’ve let this sound ebb away completely, and then the Three pass the sound to them once again, and they all hum in unison. But humming is just the beginning, it’s bound to become more upbeat.”
Anna laughs playfully and lets her gaze sweep across the cemetery. At first you think she’s esoterically letting her eyes wander over the old and new gravestones, the paths and people—but of course she’s searching for something specific, and she finds what she’s looking for. Anna fixes her gaze on a boulder.
A boulder positioned at the edge of the cemetery, so that it looks over the plain and can easily be made out from the opposite hillside. A young person stands beside it. They hold something in one hand, protectively cupping it with the other. Now they squat and examine the pile. First with their eyes, then with a hand. You see that they have just chosen. They closely examine the thing resting in the palm of their hand. Now they hold it up—it’s a stone. Now you can’t see their hands—they are covered by water—and they lay this stone in its appointed place in the boulder composed of stone, smoky quartz and moss.
“Stone, rose quartz, water, moss. I still don’t know what came first—the rituals, the fountain, or the stones—or how the moss decided, but this mourning block is one of the most beautiful things I’ve had the pleasure of coming across on my interdimensional travels. Is that a procession coming my way…? Yes, they brought a decanter.”
A group of seven individuals approaches the mourning block, moving thoughtfully and slowly. While the other people in the cemetery are dressed the same way they probably do in everyday life (even the Three are all wearing different clothes, although they’re all weather-appropriate), every member of this group is wrapped in the same layers. Beige, light grey, light green, light orange, dark cream, light brown, pink, the top garment always repetitively patterned with gold stitching. Each one slightly different but all in the same spectrum—you’re reminded of a huge painting: the canvas has been cut into pieces and each person wears a different part of the image. The coat lapels overlap in front, but are open, and underneath you see the long beige robes. Occasionally you catch a glimpse of long metallic chains, which would beat against their chests if they danced.
You aren’t able to fully make out their hair, either, because it’s wrapped in material from the same painting, completed by an additional layer of netting. Their hair—red, black, brown, blond—is thus perfectly woven into this running picture, this impressive fullness. And they carry a decanter, held out in front of them. It is transparent, seemingly without walls; only the stopper on top makes it clear that the liquid is being held by a vessel, and not merely floating in the air in front of them. The liquid might actually be smoke. It is greyish but not dull. Every time you glance over it is carried closer to the sculpture of stone, rose quartz, water, moss. You become more fixated on this liquid with every step. It glitters without being showy, as if it simply consisted of billions of tiny particles. Like the finest sand, which at some point is so small it turns to liquid. Someone pulls out the stopper; they come closer and you move closer—the 60,000 bees, which have since transformed into birds and other insects, these eternal voices carry you over there, push you over there. You look closer and closer and the particles reflect in your eyes; you can’t help but think of galaxies and stardust and how miniscule the elements are from which everything is composed. The decanter tilts and the first drop falls. You hold your breath and are absorbed by this scene of drops. The trickling from the decanter, with its invisible walls, meets the water; they glitter in competition and at the ledge begin to flow together. And the Three begin to rise. You no longer know which way is up or down, but this disorientation is completely okay; you see that the liquid and the water don’t know either, and the sounds rise and flow upwards, just as you do, just as the water does. The water? You see it clearly: in a zigzag stream from the mouth of the decanter the shimmering grey liquid seems to stand still for a moment before flowing upwards. The zigzag shape and the shape of the song are clearly connected, but you’ve no idea how exactly.
The decanter steadily empties, the song rests, and the water flows upwards—it now is all water. The block is a fountain and the water flows up together with everything it contains, and you flow with it. Anna snaps her fingers. “This is so beautiful.” You nod. “Hey, I want to write all this down and record it for the interdimensional library. That okay? We’ll meet again in a minute.” And Anna is whisked away, whisked to the boulder.
You...
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…bookmark this page using a leaf or a stick or a blade of grass. Then close the book and take as much time as you want to walk through the cemetery and think. You can find the way on your own. Walk back down the asphalt road, and on your right you’ll find an entrance through a small gate. When you’re done, we’ll meet at that gate. In the book you’ll find me again on page 56.
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...notice that you’re drawn onwards?
Then find a leaf or a stick or a blade of grass and use it to bookmark this page, so you can close the book right away and have a good stretch.
Stand up immediately, look to the sky and imagine a huge, mile-high tree, stretching out its branches and leaves above you. Send a greeting to its dimension by stretching up towards it from the soles of your feet—planted firmly on the ground—to the tips of your fingers. First let your shoulders sink, then your arms. Do this now, and read on only after you’ve stretched.
We will continue our journey and meet again at the bottom of the hill, beside the small metal gate to the cemetery.
In the book you’ll find me on page 56.
Close the book now and go. See you in a minute.