Love, Death and Catacombs

Rosemary is associated with remembrance due to its evergreen nature, symbolising eternal life and memory, and its use in ancient rituals and funeral customs.

Love, Death and Catacombs
Coming face to face with death and realising it’s a lot crispier than I thought it would be.

I love ritual. It’s something that has mused in the back of my brain forever, but over the last few years I have noticed myself being more drawn to it; ceremony, celebration, grief, love, new life; the history of how we ritualise life events is something that transcends race, continents, religion and gender. It is endlessly fascinating. The Hindu’s have Saptapadi, the Plains Indigenous peoples of North America have their Sun Dance, the Temple of Heaven in China had their Imperial Sacrifices… and Palermo had their catacombs.

Now, catacombs are not abnormal – the fashion of drying out our loved ones and hoarding them all in one space is a very decorated ritual that exists all over the world. This particular catacomb was initially started by religious leaders in the late 16th century as a cemetery for the Capuchin monks. Once the practice of mummification was discovered, this was later expanded to include the wealthy and prominent, making the catacombs a status symbol and a morbid museum of death with thousands of mummified bodies.

But here they still are. Some nearly 400 years old. What makes these catacombs starkly different to others I’ve visited is that whilst there are some laid to rest in coffins (most glass-sided so you can still see their dry, curled-in lips and moth-eaten suits), most folk in the dank, stale basement are propped up. Dressed in their Sunday bests and wired into place. Jaws hung open in a never-ending yawn, shoulders slumping ever closer to the ground. I know these folk are dead (and have been for hundreds of years) but they look tired. Being laid to rest doesn’t quite feel like the right phrase here.

But I think what struck me more than the macabre display of dried up human jerky, was that fact that I could not tell you one person’s name. No, that’s a lie, I can tell you one person’s name. Baby Rosalia Lombardo, who lost her life to pneumonia; her father, consumed by grief, demanded that she be preserved. The fashion had finally started to turn, and this wasn’t really done any more, but he insisted. She was the last person to be admitted to these catacombs. 

Of the nearly 2000 other bodies, I couldn’t tell you one name. Not one profession, one hobby, one dream, one regret. This anonymity struck me more than anything. Is this all we really become? A collection of bones and dust, and in 100 years, not even memories? What do we leave behind? Does it even matter?

I tell you, this overwhelming thought train, teamed with the unmoving air inside a human-skin-dust room, spiralled me straight into a flood of tears. It was really embarrassing. My chest searched for the fresh air it just wasn’t getting inside this space. As soon as I stepped outside and felt the hot Sicilian air flood my very-alive lungs, I relaxed a bit – but this was two weeks ago. This feeling is still with me.

I have always thought about death. Giving it the time and respect it deserves allows me to extract a little more from my living days. I don’t dwell – I’m not sat at home consumed by grief for.. well myself. As I’m sure most folk do as soon as they leave these spaces I started analysing my life pretty intensively. I am happy to report that I am happy. I got the chance to view my life as ‘would I be satisfied with this’ and I can safely say that if I don’t do anything else with my life, then I will be so okay with that. The thing that quickly followed was ‘if the worst was to happen tomorrow, would your loved ones know what to do in a way that feels true to who you are?

Late-summer flower treasures from my wee garden.

So just in case I never get the chance to write a will and my last wishes are never formally communicated, please take this piece of writing as what I would want. Disclaimer: I don’t think I’m going anywhere. This has just been a helpful exercise to get down in case something unforeseen happens upon me.

Firstly, and this can’t be said enough, do not embalm me. Do not wire me to a bit of wood and hang me in a room for all to see. I’m probably tired, and I’d like to be left alone. So in the first instance, just let me lie down. I absolutely respect the wishes of everyone in the catacombs – but this isn’t something I want for myself.

Secondly, my earthly body is now done. We had a RAD time. I made this thing move up mountains, swim in every bit of water I could, hugged all my people, and tried to live a life free of restriction, but not in a destructive way. I ate every ice cream, drank enough water (most of the time), filled my tummy with pasta and pizza and rejoiced in fresh fruit and vegetables.

My little collection of bones, muscles and Stardust did a fantastic job. I was very well structurally held together for my time on earth – but that is not how nature works. Nature is ever changing, ever moving, ever adapting. After my put-together time on the planet, I would like to be reunited with these ever-moving frequencies. Return me to ash and dust and scatter me somewhere bloody beautiful. Please don’t sit me on your mantlepiece. The world doesn’t need more benches – if you must have something to visit, plant a tree for me. Something that can grow into a large canopy and provide a home to the birds and the creatures that gave my life so much joy.

The long-term impact of death is that it is unifying in its anonymity. You may get a plaque or an entire temple devoted to you, but eventually, the people who remember the sound of your voice, the texture of your skin, the way your face lit up at every single dog, how you signed your letters, will all also be reunited with the earth – and hopefully, in a way that feels true to them too. My story doesn’t matter enough to be told for generations… I may get the odd honourable mention as ‘my grandad used to have an aunt who was utterly nuts’, but aside from that, my story will fade as all of ours do. It feels only natural to allow my earth-walking body to fade into the natural flows of our planet, too.

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Some super light reading to kick off your week! I hope the impact of my writing hasn’t sent you into a spiral - if it has, please send me a message and we can feel our feelings together!

I hope you’re having a fabulous week my friends.

Han