An Ancient Chinese Ceremony Introduced to Me by a Dear Friend That Brought Tears to My Eyes: Holding An Annual Family Reunion With Our Loved Ones No Longer Physically With Us

I met Cora Wen at the memoir writers’ retreat in Guatemala. There was something about Cora that drew me to her. Maybe it was that both of us came from immigrant families. Her energy is addictive.

Cora was my therapeutic yoga teacher as well. We met at 7 AM every morning and she helped heal my broken shoulder, the Eastern way, and its excellent healing surprised my Western doctor.

East and West. Much better when our lives – and our health -- are intertwined.

Cora wrote Picnicing with My Ancestors  Qing Mingon her website. As I had tears in my eyes, I asked her if I could repost it and she gave me permission.

It is a wonderful way to honor those we loved and love forever.

Even more so, it brings the family together in an annual ceremony that is togetherness across generations. Consider adopting the concept as a annual tradition and adapting it to your unique family.

Cora’s information is at the end of this post. Not only is she a yoga teacher, a writer, but she is also a travel agent, and I hope to travel to South Korea with her to the newest facial medi-spas on earth with

Joy,

Mema

The Mountain and the Sea: Qing Ming in San Francisco

Picnicing with My Ancestors

In the West, we drive past cemeteries without a thought. The dead have their place, while the living another. We visit with flowers and leave quickly, afraid grief might be contagious.

This past Saturday, I went to the cemetery and brought tea. Skylawn Memorial Park is where my mother, my Popo (grandmother), my uncle, and my auntie rest.

What Is Qing Ming?

Qing Ming — 清明 (Ching Ming), “Clear and Bright” — is one of the oldest observances in history, practiced by Chinese for over 2,500 years. It falls in early April, when winter finally lets go.

We might call it a kind of Memorial Day. But Qing Ming isn’t national mourning. It’s a family reunion, where some guests happen to be dead.

Families travel to ancestral graves. We bring food, incense, paper offerings. We clean the stones, talk, laugh, eat together. And go home lighter, reconnected to those gone.

Why This Hillside? The Secret Language of Feng Shui

Skylawn Memorial Park sits on the San Mateo hills, with graves facing south toward the Pacific Ocean. Mountains rise behind. On clear days you can see the water glinting at the horizon. On foggy days — most days — mist rolls into the bay like a dragon breathing.

To a Western eye, it’s a beautiful view.

To Chinese eyes, this is a perfect resting spot; a dragon’s lair — a place of Xué 穴, living landscape energy. Feng Shui — 風水, “Wind and Water” — is an ancient philosophy of landscape and energy. The ideal burial site has a mountain behind for protection, hills embracing each side for balance, and open water ahead gathering fortune. There is a saying: “Mountain governs descendants; water governs wealth.”

My Popo chose this hillside. 
She chose well.

Morning Ritual: Three Bows

Qing Ming begins the same way every year.

I light incense, hold it with both hands, and bow three times.

First bow: to Heaven, for giving us this day. Second bow: to Earth, for holding our ancestors safe. Third bow: to my mother, my Popo, my uncle, my auntie — for everything they crossed oceans to give me.

Then I start talking to them. I clean my mother’s name plaque, brush dirt from Popo’s stone, and tell them what happened since last April — what I’ve struggled with, what I’m proud of. I ask for guidance. I complain a little. That’s what family is for.

There is an ancient rite: 祭如在 — “Offer as if they are present.” 
Because they are.

Time Is Not a Line

Here is the big difference between Western and Chinese ideas about death.

In the West, time runs in a line. You are born, you live, you die. Grief is the work of accepting that ending, and learning to live with the absence. In Chinese tradition, time moves in a circle.

My mother lives in the way I fold wontons; the muscle memory of love made physical. My Popo lives in the way I tend roses, which she taught me. My auntie lives in stories told so many times, they’ve become family myth.

This is why we don’t say we are visiting the dead. We say we are rejoining our family.

The Burning

We burn Joss paper — ghost money — in small metal bins. Ashes rise toward the mountain and out to the sea. Some might think this strange. But burning isn’t for the dead. It’s for us.

There is a Chinese saying: “The one who plants the tree will never sit in its shade. But their children will.” My Popo crossed the Pacific — the same ocean I can see from her grave — so I could stand on this hill, in America, in sunlight. Burning paper is a small act, that keeps my heart from forgetting.

In a world that prizes efficiency, Qing Ming asks for us to be deliberately, beautifully irrational for one day. To give to those who cannot receive. To speak to those who cannot answer. To bow to stone and have a picnic.

The Picnic

As I leave, families spread blankets, as children run between headstones. Someone has brought a thermos of tea. An elder speaks to a grave, pausing now and then waiting for reply.

Yes — we picnic at the cemetery. I know how that sounds.

But watch longer, and you will see this is not morbid. This is what it looks like when a culture believes love doesn’t end at death — that the response to loss is to gather closer, bring the best food, let children play, and stay a little longer. We are not seperated from our ancestors.

What I Carry Home

Walking down the hill, I think about what Qing Ming gives me each year. Roots more than tears.

I live in a fast, digital, Western world. I lose my Cantonese mid-sentence. I’ve forgotten the names of ancestors Popo could recite for twelve generations. But I know the feeling of standing on a mountain above the ocean, with my mother’s mother watching waves with me.

The poet Du Fu wrote of ancestors watching us like stars that never set. When we sweep graves, we don’t mourn. We join a conversation begun a thousand years ago, and rejoin family. My ancestors are not gone. They are just on the other side of the fog.

If you’ve never done this — you don’t have to be Chinese to take something from it. Visit a cemetery. Bring something to eat. Say the name of someone you loved, out loud, in the open air, without apology. The dead don’t leave us until the last person who loved them stops speaking their name.

Mom. Popo. Uncle. Auntie. See you next spring.

Qing Ming An Kang — 清明安康 — wishing you peace and good health this Clear and Bright season.

Cora Wen

Cora Wen is an internationally recognized yoga therapist, educator, and wellness expert, known for her work in therapeutic and restorative yoga, anatomy-based alignment, and integrative healing. With over 25 years of experience, she is an E-RYT 500 certified teacher and founder of Yoga Bloom, a globally respected training program offering 200- and 500-hour certifications, mentorship, and continuing education in therapeutic yoga.

Drawing on a background in classical Chinese philosophy and Eastern medicine principles, Cora integrates mind-body wellness, seasonal health, and emotional balance into her teachings. She has lectured internationally and contributed to clinical research collaborations with institutions such as UCSF and the National Institutes of Health.

Cora is also a pioneer in wellness travel, having designed and led international yoga retreats and cultural tours across Asia, Europe, and the Americas, and developed programs for luxury hospitality brands including Aman and Mandarin Oriental.

Her writing and teachings have appeared in leading platforms such as Yoga Journal, Yoga International, and Elephant Journal, where she shares insights on yoga therapy, philosophy, and holistic health.

Learn more or connect:

•                  Main site: https://www.corayoga.com

•                  Articles & media: http://www.corawen.com