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Every time I went to sweep the graves on Qingming Festival, my grandma would say: When we leave, you will grow up, and when you reach the generation of your children, these graves should become wild graves.
When I was young, I didn’t like the Qingming Festival very much. Maybe many of my friends had the same mentality as me. I finally took a vacation. I had to walk such a long mountain road. I stepped on the mud on my shoes, and my body was covered with thorn balls. Go kowtow to relatives you may have never seen before, and burn paper.
The old people in the family will tell you who this is and who this is. You will just nod your head and perfunctory things. As they said, when the older generation is gone, you will not come to burn paper for these people.
But when you grow up, your relatives and elders have left you, and you will always go to the grave to burn joss paper every time you go to Qingming Festival. There is no way, you are also worried that these elders will have no money to spend there, and the paper that should be burned still has to be burned. , this is not a question of filial piety, this is a family relationship that tells you that blood is thicker than water, even if scientifically he has passed away, in metaphysics you still think that he is still there, and you are afraid that if he has a bad life, he will It’s because you are lazy and burn him less money.
Some people are afraid of ghosts, some people don’t believe in ghosts, but when someone close to your family really dies, you really hope that there are ghosts, and you hope that those relatives still exist in this world and keep watching With you, grow up slowly day by day.
Every year on Qingming Festival, Zhongyuan Festival, and Winter Clothes Festival, I will fold the ingots a few days in advance. First, I will go to my grandfather’s tomb to worship and sweep. Then I will carry the ingots back to the Taoist temple, and I will do a spiritual treasure saving death with my master, and then write It was so dark, I burned him one by one, watching the paper slowly burn, I hoped that he would look at me from the sky and say that this baby still hasn’t forgotten the dead old man.
The blood ties of relatives cannot be given up. The function of Qingming Festival is to let you miss them, and also to comfort your own affection for them that you can no longer rely on. Yes, people are dead, but you can’t help wishing they were still alive.
Every year, many pilgrims in Taoist temples send WeChat messages asking them to burn ingots on their behalf. Some are unable to come back to worship their ancestors from other places, and some are not allowed to burn paper, so they can only be burned in Taoist temples. More, the words of an uncle left a deep impression on me:
I never felt that my mother was gone. I felt that it was the same as when I used to work outside and she was still living at home. I don’t go back to my hometown for Chinese New Year now. I only have a three-day holiday for Qingming Festival, and I made a special trip back. As a result, I can’t come back this year due to the epidemic. I feel like I buy her clothes or pay her living expenses every year. I think she is still there and she will say that I am filial, so I have to burn it for her every year. Being bullied and angry, I must never dream of my mother.
A big man in his 40s, texting me, suddenly choked like a child. I don’t know how to comfort him either, and I think this passage is the answer to that question. I don’t say whether there are ghosts or ghosts, feudalism or science, from ancient times to the present, it has never changed, it has always been the affection of children and elders.
Remembering the past, family love is the theme of this festival that will never change. The slowly burning ingot paper money, just like when you choose clothes for your mother, father and grandfather or give them pocket money, is the only consolation for you to catch them and not let them fade in your memory.
Ten years of life and death are boundless, without thinking, since it is unforgettable. Thousands of miles of solitary graves, nowhere to speak bleak. Even if I don’t know each other, my face is full of dust, my temples are like frost
