Turning Toward the Dead (Post #1)
Reclaiming ancestral burial traditions in our modern lives
In my work with the ancestors, one of the things I often ask them is: How did you tend your dead? The way people care for their dead tells us so much about how they lived—what they valued, how they understood the world, and how they remained connected across time.
In our modern world, it seems we’ve lost much of this relationship. And so, I decided to create this series—to share some of the customs my ancestors have shown me and explore ways we might reclaim these traditions. My hope is that this fosters what I call sacred remembrance; that we might open ourselves to the wisdom of those who came before and gently weave these practices back into our lives. Not as rigid rituals of the past, but as living traditions that help us find our way forward.
The wind carried the dust in thick waves, slipping under the door and around the window frames. It coated everything—plates, linens, the edges of the dining table where, most nights, my grandmother sat with her family, eating what little they had.
But tonight, the table held someone else.
The young girl lay still, her hands folded over a simple dress, her face pale and delicate. The scent of dry earth and kerosene lamps mingled with something else—something harder to name, something my grandmother had no words for but would always remember.
Neighbors came and went, their boots knocking softly against the dirt floor. They spoke in low voices, murmuring prayers, pressing their rough hands over the grieving mother’s shoulders.
For three days, the girl lay there, as was the way of things. A body was not something to be hidden away. It was tended to, cared for, witnessed.
Then the men came to carry her away for burial. The mother let out a sound that my grandmother would never forget—a low, keening wail, like something pulled from the depths of the earth itself.
Afterwards, just as it always did, life carried on. The table was wiped clean, the chairs pushed back into place, and by supper, plates were set once more.
My grandmother told me this story without hesitation, as though it were as ordinary as cooking supper or milking the cows. And in her time, it was. Death was accepted as a part of life, even if a painful one. But somewhere along the way, we forgot how to sit with our dead. We stopped allowing them a place at the table.
My grandmother’s story is not unique. For most of human history, and even into the early 20th century here in the United States, tending to the dead was a communal act, woven seamlessly into the rhythms of life. In rural communities, people cared for their own, washing and dressing the body, laying them out in parlors or on dining tables, much like my grandmother’s family did for the young neighbor girl.
But somewhere along the way, that changed. The rise of funeral homes and modern medicine shifted death out of sight, tucking it behind hospital doors and morgue walls. The work of tending the dead, once a sacred and necessary task, was handed over to professionals. At the same time, our cultural narratives about death began to shift. No longer was it something to be met with reverence and care; it became something to fear, something to push away. We stopped seeing the bodies of our dead. We stopped speaking of them, stopped making space for them in our homes, in our conversations, in our daily lives.
And now, in many ways, we have become a culture terrified not just of death itself, but of the dead.
We shy away from open caskets. We turn grief into something private, something that must be moved through quickly and quietly. And when someone dies, the body is taken almost immediately—out of the home, out of sight, away from our hands.
But what if we could remember?
What if, instead of pushing death further away, we begin to gently welcome it back? Not in a morbid or dramatic way, but with quiet reverence, with simple acknowledgment, with an openness to reweaving it into the fabric of life. What if we allowed the presence of our dead to return to the table, just as my grandmother’s community once did?
This is the first post in a series dedicated to doing just that. Truly, this is an invitation. An invitation to ease back into the kind of relationship with death and the dead that our ancestors had: as something to be held, witnessed, and even welcomed in small ways.
Relearning this relationship with death doesn’t have to be overwhelming. It can begin with something as simple as making space—an empty chair, a quiet moment, an acknowledgment that death is not separate from life.
For this first post, I feel it’s most fitting to begin, as so many before us have, at the table. The place where we gather, where we nourish ourselves, where stories are told and laughter lingers. The place where, not so long ago, the dead were also welcome.
What would it feel like to invite them back?
Below is a simple ritual—a gentle way to begin easing into the presence of death, not as something to fear, but as something to honor.
Ritual: The Sacred Seat at the Table
Step 1: Preparing the Space & Setting Protection
Choose a table, preferably one where you tend to take your meals. Clear the space with intention, wiping the surface as an act of welcome, as if preparing for a beloved guest. If you wish, place a cloth, fresh flowers, or a small bowl of water to symbolize the threshold between the living and the dead.
Before inviting the presence of the dead, take a moment to call in protection and guidance. This isn’t about fear, but about creating a space of clarity, warmth, and love. If you already know your primary spirit helpers, invite them in at this time. If not, you might envision a circle of light surrounding the table, a gentle boundary that allows only what is wise and well to enter. If words help, you could say something like:
"May this space be held in love and protection. May only those who come with kindness, wisdom, and goodwill be welcomed here."
Step 2: Inviting the Presence of the Dead
With a quiet breath, invite the presence of the wise and well dead—those who love you, those who walk with you unseen. Speak their names if you feel called. Set a place for them at the table—this could be an actual chair left empty, a small offering plate, or simply an object that represents their presence. If words feel right, you might say:
"I open this space to remembrance, to love, and to the quiet presence of those who have gone before. May this be a place where we meet, if only for a moment."
Step 3: Sitting in Communion
Take a seat. If you are alone, allow yourself to simply be—listening, sensing, remembering. If you are with others, let conversation flow naturally. You might share a story about the dead, recall something they loved, or speak of the ways their presence lingers in your life. If silence feels right, let it be a companion rather than an absence.
If you feel called, you may wish to offer a small portion of food or drink to the dead, just as you would for a beloved guest. This could be a piece of bread, a cup of tea, or a bit of whatever you are having, placed on a small dish or left at their symbolic seat. It is not about what is given, but the act of offering itself—a simple acknowledgment that they are present. That they are welcome, remembered, and still part of the gathering.
Step 4: Acknowledging the Thread Between Life and Death
When the moment feels full, take a pause. Acknowledge that death is not separate from life, but woven into it. You might touch the table, feeling the grain of the wood beneath your fingers, grounding into the physical world even as you honor the unseen. If it feels right, offer a simple, heartfelt thank you—for their presence, for their memory, for the way they continue to shape the world through you.
Step 5: Closing with Grace
When you feel ready, gently signal the close of the gathering. If you have lit a candle, blow it out slowly, watching the smoke curl upward, like a final whisper between realms. Remove the object you placed at the table, tucking it somewhere meaningful. If you set a physical seat for the dead, you might turn the chair back in or remove the offering as a gentle way of closing the space. You might whisper a quiet farewell or simply allow the moment to dissolve. Know that you can return to this practice as often as you’d like, even at every meal.
Why It Matters:
This ritual is an act of remembrance, an easing back into relationship with death. It allows us to reclaim what was once ordinary: the presence of the dead in the spaces of the living, especially those where we find nourishment. By setting a place for them, we invite a quiet dissolution of fear, a deeper intimacy with the cycles of life, and a recognition that the table—like all sacred spaces—can hold both nourishment and loss, presence and absence, the living and the dead.
Stay tuned for the second post of this series where we will explore the burial traditions of prehistoric Anatolia.
This is gorgeous. Witchy in a beautiful way, by that I mean the ritual is so specifically and purposefully laid out. I love it.