Filial Piety Lives in the Heart, Not the Grave

The day the new funeral regulations were announced, I was squatting on my balcony watering a dying pothos plant. My phone buzzed with a news notification; I glanced at it, froze for a few seconds, and then suddenly burst into tears.

It’s a bit embarrassing, really—a grown man, crouching on his balcony clutching a watering can, with tears splashing right into the flowerpot.

But I truly couldn’t help myself.

Because my father has been gone for three years. Three years ago, to buy him that cemetery plot, I didn't just empty my savings—I took out online loans.

My dad was a stubborn man who never bowed his head to anyone his whole life. When he passed, my mom said we had to find him a good spot, that we couldn't let him be mistreated in the afterlife. I knew what she meant. When he was alive, he loved peace and quiet; he didn't like being crowded. We visited three cemeteries and finally picked one nestled against a mountain and facing the water. The price was equally "grand"—88,000 yuan.

88,000 yuan, folks. For a space less than a single square meter. Add the headstone, burial fees, engraving, and management fees, and it totaled over 120,000 yuan.

I had just been married a short while, and my wife was pregnant. That was all the family capital we had. I didn't dare tell my mother it was expensive, and I didn't dare tell my wife how much it cost. I just gritted my teeth and put in the money we had saved for the baby’s stroller.

During that time, I couldn't sleep for nights on end. It’s not that my dad wasn't worth it—of course he was. He gave his whole life to me. Forget 120,000; I would have been willing to pay 1.2 million. But willingness is one thing; the hardship was another. When my wife eventually found out, we had a huge fight. She wasn't blaming me for spending money on my father; she was blaming me for hiding it from her and carrying the burden alone.

She asked, "Do you think I’m so narrow-minded, or do you think I don't deserve to carry the weight with you?"

I didn't know how to answer. I just felt that as a son, buying a plot for my father was my duty. As a husband, not letting my wife shoulder debt was also my duty. Trying to carry both ends, I ended up feeling like I’d failed them both.

So when I saw that new regulation, my first reaction was: Why couldn't this have come three years earlier?

Once I calmed down, I looked closely at the details. Starting March 30th, the government is promoting "land-saving ecological burials"—including sea burials, tree burials, flower bed burials, and lawn burials. It’s now legal to not buy a traditional plot, and the government even provides subsidies.

My first thought was that this policy is good—truly good. But then I wondered: If this policy had existed three years ago, would I have chosen these methods?

The answer is no.

Because I couldn't let go. I felt I had to buy my father a headstone, carve his name into it, and visit on holidays to burn spirit money and kowtow for it to count as "filial piety." This is the obsession of my generation, and it was the obsession of my father’s generation.

When my dad was alive, he once got a bit drunk, grabbed my hand, and said, "Son, when I’m gone, find me a quiet place. Not too expensive, but don't make it look shabby either. Your mom suffered a lot with me; when I'm gone, you have to take good care of her."

He said "not too expensive," but I knew in his heart, he wanted something dignified.

My wife’s grandfather is different. The old man is 87 this year, his hearing is sharp, and his eyes are clear. He does Tai Chi in the park every morning and plays chess with his old buddies in the afternoon. Recently, when the family was chatting about the new rules, he slapped his thigh and said, "This is great! I’ve said it for a long time: when I go, just cremate me and scatter me in the sea. If you really miss me, just go for a walk by the beach. I won't be stuck anywhere; I'll be under your feet every day."

My wife started crying: "Grandpa, don't talk like that."

The old man chuckled. "How is this nonsense? Think about it. A cemetery plot costs tens of thousands, plus annual management fees. If you take that money to travel or eat a nice meal, isn't that better than spending it on a dead man? If you’re good to me while I’m alive, that’s what matters. After I’m gone, if you guys are living comfortably, I’ll be happy down there too."

To be honest, hearing those words made my eyes sting.

He sees through it all so clearly.

I suddenly remembered that before my father passed, he had actually said something similar. During his hospitalization, when he was feeling a bit better, he told me, "Cemeteries are too expensive nowadays. Later on, just find a place to scatter me; don't waste that money."

At the time, I thought he was just worried about the cost, so I quickly said, "Dad, don't worry about that. The money that needs to be spent will be spent."

He just smiled and didn't say another word.

Looking back now, he might truly have not cared about that stone or that mound of earth. What he cared about was whether I was doing well, and whether I would be suffocated by the debt.

But I didn't understand. Or rather, I understood, but I couldn't let go. What I couldn't let go of was the hurdle in my own heart—the belief that I had to use this specific method to express my filial piety.

I have a friend whose mother passed away the year before last. He and his two siblings discussed buying a plot. They looked around; they looked down on the cheap ones and couldn't afford the ones they liked. Finally, the eldest brother made the call to buy a mid-range one for over 60,000 yuan, split three ways. My friend had just bought an apartment with a monthly mortgage of over 8,000; his 20,000-yuan share was scraped together from credit cards.

He later told me, "You know, every time I go to my mother’s grave, it doesn't feel right. It’s not that I think the money shouldn't have been spent, but I feel that if my mom knew we were living hand-to-mouth just to buy her a plot, she would definitely be unhappy."

"When she was alive, she couldn't stand seeing us worry about money. We were poor when we were kids, and she scrimped and saved to put us through school, wearing the same clothes for seven or eight years. Now that she’s gone, we’re back to living tight because of her."

His eyes were red when he said that.

I understood him completely. Because I was exactly the same.

If my dad knew I took out online loans to buy a grave, he’d probably crawl out of it to give me a beating.

Since the new regulations came out, I’ve scrolled through many comments. Some say it's good, some say it's bad. Some feel not buying a grave is disrespectful to the deceased; others feel it's progress.

I scrolled for a long time and saw one comment written by a young woman. She said her mother passed away last year. The family wasn't doing well financially and couldn't afford a plot, so they had to temporarily store the ashes in a niche at the funeral home. Every time she visited her mother, she had to walk through long corridors and find that tiny spot among the dense rows of lockers. She felt she had failed her mother, that she hadn't fulfilled her filial duty.

After the new rules came out, she decided on a sea burial for her mother. She wrote: "I've realized—my mom loved the ocean most when she was alive. Every time she went to the beach, she was as happy as a child. Letting her return to the sea is much better than keeping her trapped in that tiny box."

She ended with: "Mom, I'm sorry for making you wait so long. This time, I’m taking you to the sea."

I couldn't stop my tears after reading that.

You see, this is the dilemma of our generation. It’s not that we don't want to be filial or give our loved ones the best arrangements. But reality is right there—high housing prices, rising costs of living, stagnant wages. We calculate every month's expenses, saving wherever we can.

A cemetery plot—you could say it’s a "rigid demand," and it is. But is the price really reasonable? Tens of thousands or even over a hundred thousand per square meter—it’s more expensive than a house. You can at least live in a house; how many times a year do you visit a grave?

I’m not saying buying a grave is bad. If you have the means and want to buy one, that’s your heart's intent, and I completely understand. I did it myself. But the problem is, not everyone has those means. Many people take on heavy financial burdens to buy a grave, even affecting the quality of life for the living.

That’s putting the cart before the horse.

On the first Tomb Sweeping Day after my father passed, I went to his grave. It was raining. I knelt before the headstone and talked to him for a long time. Eventually, I started crying—sobbing uncontrollably.

I said, "Dad, I bought you such a big grave. Look, it’s by the mountain and the water. Do you like it?"

I said, "Dad, don't worry, I’m taking good care of Mom. She’s out dancing in the square with the other ladies every day; she’s got plenty of energy."

I said, "Dad, I miss you."

I sat there for a long time. The rain got heavier, but I didn't want to leave. Only when my mom called to ask if I was coming home for dinner did I stand up.

As I stood, I saw a grave nearby. The name was carved on the stone; the photo was of a young girl, twenty-six years old. A bouquet of withered flowers lay in front, and the candles next to it had gone out.

I thought, how heartbroken her parents must be. To bury their own child, and then to spend so much money on a plot. Every time they visit, their hearts must break all over again.

If they had chosen a sea burial or a tree burial, would it have been a bit better? Not that they would miss her any less, but it would be a different way of remembering. No need to visit every month, no need to cry until your heart is torn apart every time. If they missed her, they could just walk by the sea or sit under that tree and talk to her.

She would be there, and yet she would be everywhere.

The new regulations go into effect on March 30th. To be honest, I think it’s a good thing—a very good thing.

It’s not forcing you not to buy a grave; it’s giving you an extra choice. If you have the ability and the need, you can still buy one. If you don't have the means, or if you don't want to spend the money that way, you now have a legal, dignified, and recognized alternative.

What do you call that? You call it "humanistic care." You call it "lightening the burden on the people."

I have a childhood friend working in Beijing. He earns over 20,000 a month—sounds like a lot, right? But his rent is 8,000, his kid’s tuition is 3,000, and living expenses are 5,000. Not much is left at the end of the month. He told me his biggest fear now is getting a call from his hometown, fearing something has happened to the elders.

"It’s not that I’m afraid of them leaving; it’s that I’m afraid I won't even be able to afford a grave when they do." He smiled when he said that, but it looked worse than crying.

I comforted him, saying there's a new policy now, you don't have to buy a grave—sea or tree burials are fine, and the government gives a subsidy.

He paused. "Really? But would my parents agree? People back in the village are traditional about these things."

I said, "Whether your parents agree is one thing, but at least you know that even if you can't afford a grave, you have a way out. You don't have to lose sleep over this anxiety anymore."

He was silent for a long time, then said, "True."

You see, that’s the significance of the new rules. It doesn't solve the question of "should I buy a grave"; it solves the problem of "what if I can't afford one."

It allows those in tight financial situations to stop making painful choices between filial piety and reality.

It allows elderly people who don't want to burden their children to choose the way they want to go with peace of mind.

It gives our goodbyes a bit more composure and a bit less anxiety.

My father has been gone for three years. In those three years, I've visited his grave countless times. Each time, I stand there for a while and talk to him.

Sometimes I wonder: If I hadn't bought this plot back then, and had instead scattered his ashes into the sea, would I feel like I failed him?

I’ve thought about it for a long time, and the answer is—no.

Because what I remember isn't this grave. What I remember is him teaching me to ride a bike, him cooking for me, and him holding on while he was sick just so I wouldn't worry. He is in my heart, not in that headstone.

He lives in my memory, in every word I say and every decision I make. When I face difficulties, I think about what he would do. When I do something wrong, I think about how he would scold me.

That is how he exists. Not through that stone, not through that mound of earth.

Of course, I’m not saying I’m going to dig up my dad’s grave and throw him into the sea. It’s already bought, so let it stay there. On holidays, I’ll still go see him, burn some spirit money, and talk to him.

But what I want to say is, if the day comes that I go too, I hope my children don't worry about my cemetery plot. Sea burial, tree burial, flower bed burial—anything is fine, the simpler the better.

Love me well while I’m alive. Live well after I’m gone.

That is enough.

The new rules start on March 30th. I plan to go for a walk by the sea that day. I’ll bring my dad’s photo and a bottle of his favorite liquor.

I'll go talk to him and tell him he doesn't have to worry about cemetery plots anymore.

I'll tell him to be well on the other side and not to worry about me.

I'll tell him I’m going to live a good life—living out his share of life along with my own.

Finally, I’ll end with a sentence for everyone reading this:

Filial piety is in the heart, not in the grave. Spend more time with them while they are alive—that is better than anything.