On a recent visit to the cemetery where my parents are buried, I was reminded of a mildly bothersome fact: I still haven’t chosen my own final resting place.
Last December, my cousin Kevin and I took a drive up to Auriesville, New York, to visit the Jesuit cemetery. As I’ve written before, it’s a peaceful place—quiet, serene, almost impossibly beautiful. But there’s a hitch. I’m not a Jesuit. Which, as far as I know, makes my permanent residency there legally questionable.
I’ve thought about it. I know I should deal with it. But as that old song goes, I just don’t know what to do with myself.
Maybe part of the hesitation is superstition. If you don’t think about your death, you can pretend you won’t have one. That logic doesn’t hold up well under scrutiny, but it’s comforting nonetheless. Still, when it comes to burial, you need to—well—plot.
Now I lay me down to rest.
But where?
Ashes to ashes, dust to… soil?
I wonder how many of you are wrestling with the same question. Do you delay too? Is procrastination our last shared hobby? What’s the right age to pick out a gravesite? To decide how you want to be buried—and in what fashion?
Because it’s more complicated now than it used to be. When I was growing up, the options were limited. There were a few nearby cemeteries. You died. You were buried in one of them. End of discussion.
Today, cremation has overtaken burial as the most popular choice. According to the National Funeral Directors Association, by 2035 nearly 80 percent of Americans will be cremated.
Unless they’re composted.
Yes—composted. Like coffee grounds and autumn leaves. This is the newest trend in places like Oregon, Vermont, Washington, California, and Colorado, where human remains can now be turned into fertilizer.
I understand the environmental impulse. I do. But I like to imagine something a bit more eternal than mulch.
Cremation—cheaper and more popular—is a perfectly sensible option. But it still leaves the “where” unresolved. In an urn? A columbarium? On the mantle? Scattered to the wind?
There’s also freezing. Cryogenics is real. I could be sealed in a canister, stored upside down, waiting centuries to be thawed and theoretically brought back to life.
But who would I know? Who would I hang out with?
So that’s a no to freezing, composting, and scattering my ashes over the ocean. With my luck, a breeze would pick the wrong moment and I’d wind up on someone’s beach umbrella.
So where do I lay myself down?
There’s a lovely cemetery in the town where I live. It would make sense, I suppose, to plan your eternal rest near the place where you endured your eternal struggle.
So why haven’t I done it? What’s holding me back? Is it the idea that once you commit, it’s like the Army—no turning back? Or do I still believe there are more chapters ahead? More places to discover?
Which brings me back to Auriesville.
The setting was stunning. The colors were unreal. It was as quiet as the most secluded corner of heaven.
“Wouldn’t this be a great place to be buried?” I asked Kevin.
“Yeah,” he said. “If you don’t want anyone to visit.”
And that, I think, settles it. Even in death, I’d still like some company. The real question isn’t where I want to be—it’s where the people I love would be most likely to stop by for a spell.
So if you were lucky enough to be educated by the Jesuits, visit Auriesville if you can. Say hello to the men who helped make us who we are.
I just might be there too.
The Valley Viewpoint 