Just came back from the ceremony noting the 49th day since my uncle's death. Family members and friends gathered in the temple that my aunt has been going to for 20 or 30 years, and paid respects. So far as I can gather, until the 49th day, the spirit still lingers on earth, waiting to be reborn. The ritual on the 49th day frees the spirit to be born again.

In practical terms, this meant a lot of chanting, bowing, and food. I did the best I could with the chanting and bowing, considering I'm still pretty slow at reading Korean, and didn't know what the heck was going on. My aunt and her friends knew what to do at what times, but the family members were a little lost.

The temple is an all-female monk temple, which is pretty cool. The monks set up a screen behind which the deceased is symbolically supposed to be changing his clothes for his journey toward the next life. After the chanting and bowing, there was a ritual burning of clothes and shoes.

Then we ate.

I met my dad's three female cousins -- daughters of his father's sister. They all had the same calm, gentle, intelligent, smiling demeanor my dad has. As I have on occasion felt before, I realized again the huge web of family I have in this country, something that I never felt growing up in the States. A feeling of connection and rootedness. Even though I scarcely ever see them (or, as in this case, even know of their existence!), knowing that they're there is enough to alter the landscape, just a little bit.

As I was sitting (cross-legged, painfully), I wondered if I could manage having this kind of ceremony done when my parents pass away. It seems odd to think that generations of tradition would stop with me. Recently I was explaining my reasons for learning Korean to someone, and I was struck by the fact that all my ancestors have spoken Korean. Since Korea's history goes back more than a thousand years, it's not out of the bounds of imagination to think that my great-great-great-great-etc. grandparents lived somewhere on this peninsula. It seems the height of absurdity that the language and customs should stop now, with me. Not that I hold it against my parents for deciding to immigrate -- god, no, I applaud their bravery and appreciate my life in the States, especially now that I've lived here for 10 months. But it's a bit of a shock to think that my brother and I are separated from so much history.