Saw my first Ukranian funeral procession a few days ago.
The path I jog takes me out of the city and past a cemetery, and it was as I was cutting through a field now dead in winter that a scene out of a movie happened. It was a bleak, overcast day of gray as they all are this time of year. I was listening to music on my MP3 player, ground rolling under me, when in front was a procession of color. I slowed, then stopped, and removed my headphones, ears met with a sad dirge.
I watched, breathing heavy as the procession followed the curve of the road and passed me, about twenty people carrying wreaths of colorful flowers on stands followed by a flat bed truck. The people glanced at me as I stood there, and I hoped they weren’t being offended.
A glance behind me and up the hill at a lady with a baby carriage who had also stopped to watch reassured me that they weren’t. Later, I found it is in fact rude to move while a funeral procession passes, and I was doing the correct thing.
As the flat bed passed, also covered in flowers, I saw the coffin, a simple wooden box. Then I nearly took a step back when I realized I was looking at the tip of a nose and two folded hands peeking up above the rim. As per Ukrainian tradition, the coffin was taken to the grave open, where the lid would be nailed on and it would be lowered before the watchful eyes of friends and family.
Following the flat bed were a few men carrying beat-up brass instruments, taking a break before they drew in breaths and began to inexpertly play another dirge. Behind them trailed another twenty people, heads down and slowly walking, bundled against the cold. Behind the people slowly drove the red and blue bus that would take them all back into the city.
It was something out of a movie because it was one of those generic American-runs-into-cultural-thing-while jogging-in-another-country moments, and the suddenness with which I was pulled out of my music and motion induced reverie made it surreal as the people slowly passed.
I’ve been watching a lot of the show “Six Feet Under”, loaned to me by a friend, and together the two have got me thinking about death. Not in a morbid way, but just about it and what it means to us.
A lot of the newness and excitement has gone out of the Peace Corps experience, replaced by dreary weather and constant work, but when I wonder that oft-asked question: “if I died tomorrow, would I be happy with what I’m doing today?” the answer is yes.
And while that frozen corpse passed me, I found I was still glad to have a journey to take.