A Weekend of Rituals: Graduations, Weddings, Memorials
One summer weekend I attended an eighth-grade graduation (my grandson Nathan’s), the wedding of close friends’ daughter, a memorial for my friend Martha, another memorial for my longtime neighbor Richard, and a wedding of contemporaries where I officiated. Moving from one ritual to another, I was struck by how steadfastly celebratory humans are—how we keep marking what matters. Though we each are one life among billions, we continually say: This person is important to me; this moment is important to me.
Each ritual touched me differently. I loved seeing photos of Richard jumping a horse decades ago, so alive and young. I loved that the newlyweds had grandparents present. I was moved when a soloist sang “At Last” at my middle-aged friends’ wedding. At Martha’s memorial, held at the home she shared with Joelle, guests chose one of Martha’s framed photographs to take home; I chose the Eiffel Tower reflected in a Paris puddle.
Why We Mark Moments: “This Person, This Moment, Matters”
On the surface, a grade-school graduation may seem less momentous than a wedding or memorial, yet I found myself weeping—perhaps because so many people gathered to celebrate so many individuals at once. As “Pomp and Circumstance” played and the audience craned to find “their” person, the sweetness of the ritual swelled. “Look, there is Nathan,” Trish said. “He is the one with all the hair!” My mind flashed to the collective effort behind that scene: countless parent-teacher meetings, camp applications, dentist appointments, midnight ER trips, last-minute shoebox dioramas.
The Sweetness of Graduation—and Anticipatory Grief
Even as I celebrated, I felt the shadow of impermanence. Some of these smiling fourteen-year-olds will thrive; some will struggle. Accidents, illnesses, and unexpected misfortunes arrive unannounced. My tears carried a disturbing alarm: any life can change radically by tomorrow. It felt like sadness on behalf of everyone there—an anticipatory grief for future disappointments that are part of the human condition.
A Teacher’s Lesson on Impermanence: “Not Sad—Just True”
Years ago I told my meditation teacher, “It is so sad. The end of everything is in its beginning. Nothing lasts.”
He said, “It’s not sad. It’s just true. You are making it sad by your commentary about it.”
Attention Without Despair: Letting Vulnerability Keep Us Kind
I still wonder. Awareness of temporality compels attention—and that is good. I can acknowledge inevitable loss and disappointment without being depressed by it. In fact, remembering our shared vulnerability keeps me kind. Watching the graduates cross the stage, I wanted so much for each of them—and their parents—to thrive that I couldn’t summon a grudge or fault. Gratitude filled the moment, echoing a childhood blessing: a thanksgiving for having been kept alive and sustained until this moment.
Rituals as Containers for Feeling: From Elgar to Bach
Being moved by life’s precariousness turns the mind toward gratitude. Celebrations and farewells—birthdays, graduations, marriages, funerals—declare that a life is meaningful and that something important is happening or has happened. The music we choose—Elgar for graduations, Pachelbel for weddings, Bach for memorials—comforts us. It says, everyone does this. We can allow delight or sorrow to rise, knowing the feeling will pass as the event becomes part of the past, and knowing we are held by caring company.
Letting Feelings Pass, Together: Gratitude for Being Kept Until This Moment
Rituals don’t erase impermanence; they help us meet it. Marking time together lets us feel fully, loosen commentary that makes truth “sad,” and rest in shared gratitude for being here—together—now.
