Graveyard Walks
This practice of Graveyard Walks has become something deeply close to my heart. If you know me, you know I’m a Scorpio sun with a genuine fascination with death. My house is filled with little skull trinkets, planters, and bits of art that honor that fascination…and, of course, there’s my arm sleeve tattoo that tells the story of my own wrestling with death after my mother passed. Maybe one day we’ll grab coffee, and I’ll tell you about it.
just a small collection of the skulls I have in my home…
Maybe that fascination has always been with me. I can trace it back to when I was 21, driving past a roadside burial site when it suddenly hit me: one day, that’ll be me too–just a name on a stone, eventually forgotten. It wasn’t a morbid thought as it was comforting and strangely peaceful, like remembering a truth I already knew. It clarified for me that death is inevitable and shifted how I saw everything from that point on. As you can probably tell, I’m not really a Hallmark card type, I’m more of a memento mori kind of gal.
I’ve loved walking through graveyards ever since. They remind me where I’m headed, where we’re all headed, and somehow that brings me peace. These walks keep me connected to myself and purpose, to my loved ones who’ve crossed over (hi, Mom) and to ancestors I never knew but still feel bound to. I see ancestry as sacred witch work, and this ritual is one of the ways I honor that, approaching each visit with reverence and care, treating the ground as the sacred space it is.
How I Prepare for a Graveyard Walk
Before I leave the house, I wash my hands with a simple salt scrub (just salt and water.) As I scrub, I set my intention to cleanse and center myself emotionally for where I’m about to go. Once my hands are dry, I rub in a calming oil blend with a scent that helps me stay present during the walk.
I never go empty-handed. Out of respect, I bring small, biodegradable offerings, nothing that would harm the land. Usually, it’s a vial of water (I’ll share why in a moment), a few small stones from my collection, and some dried flowers if I have them on hand. Each one gets a quiet blessing; a small spell of gratitude and intention.
And before I get out of the car, I always remind myself of my boundaries; that I’m there to honor, not to disturb, and that I don’t invite anything to disturb me either.
How I Enter the Graveyard
When I arrive at the front gate, I always pause. I take a breath and leave one of my small gifts, usually a rock or a flower, as a way of thanking the graveyard for allowing me to enter. Once I’m inside, I don’t plan where to go. I simply follow where I’m drawn. Here in Chicago, we have some truly breathtaking cemetery arboretums. I feel genuinely lucky to walk those paths and get lost in the quiet beauty of trees growing tall beside headstones, roots weaving through time, life and death existing side by side. It’s such a powerful reminder that even in endings, there’s continuation.
On this particular walk, I was especially struck by a small cluster of baby gravestones. I sat down in the grass and let the tears come, almost overcome by grief. It made me think of my aunt, Naomi, who died at six months old in the 1950s. Growing up, I only ever heard fragments of her story, scattered facts here and there, and somehow, her death was always the unspoken reason my grandmother was emotionally distant.
When my grandmother’s grief swallowed her whole, closing her off from love, that silence rippled through the generations that followed. It shaped me, too. That’s why I’ve been finding ways to remember Naomi, not only for her, but for the mother whose soul was partly buried the day her daughter died. Maybe that’s why ancestry work feels so central to my practice. It’s a way of giving voice to what was never spoken, of grieving what was never allowed to be grieved.
this statue feels haunting to me, like it’s speaking on behalf of my grandmother’s guilt and grief.
This is one of the many reasons I love my Graveyard Walks. Sitting among those tiny stones, I can feel the quiet thread that binds the living and the dead; the way love and memory outlast everything else. It makes me think about what it means to be loved and then so quietly forgotten, and how sacred it feels to offer even the smallest spell of remembrance to say: I see you.
How I Leave the Graveyard
Depending on what I focus on during my walk, I let that shape the meaning of my vial of water. On this particular day, it became a symbol of tears, not only my own, but the collective tears of everyone who has ever come here to grieve. Other times, it represents how death always brings in new life. Sometimes remembrance. Sometimes simply gratitude.
As I approach the gate to leave, I pour the water out at the entrance, often at the base of a tree or into the waiting soil. It’s my way of saying thank you: to the land for holding me, to the souls for allowing me to witness them, and to gently remind them that I am leaving their space now, and they are to stay where they belong. I leave my tears there.
is this something you do or would like to try?
