THE GREATEST MYSTERY OF ALL
One hundred thousand years ago Paleolithic people gathered to-
gether some bones and shells and created the first ritual in human
history. It was a death ritual. Last week I stood on a beach with my
family， raised a glass in tribute， and scattered seashells into the ocean.
It was a death ritual.
The toast was in the name of my mother-in-law， who had died
seven days before， the shells her personal collection of mementos
gathered from the places she had loved. We honored her name，
drank to her spirit， and symbolically released our attachment to her，
giving those lovely delicate shells and polished stones over to the sea，
over to impermanence incarnate in the wind and the waves.
During the week since Eugenia died we had definitely done
some crying but we had spent most of our time meeting the myriad
requirements that arise in the aftermath of a contemporary life. In
addition to dealing with the phone company， the post office， the
bank， and the government， we found ourselves writing letters， pack-
ing boxes， and consoling others. Taking care of her business was， in a
way， like taking care of her.
Now， on the beach， a finality began to sink in. She was really
and completely gone. Death had come to us in her place， interrupt-
ing the assumption of future， reminding us of our fragility. It was a
rainy day but we ignored the gathering storm， huddling together on
the sand long after the shells and the champagne were gone. We
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