Taking a look at funerals around the world

"Grief is at its core the loss of an imagined future" said Dr. Megan Shen, a social psychologist and researcher, during a TEDx talk in 2026. Dr. Shen has spent her career helping individuals, teams, and organizations find hope, resilience during life's most difficult moments. Whether you experience the death of a loved one, or a dramatic change in your life, grief is the natural response, and unfortunately the cost of being human. When a traumatic event or the death of someone we love enters our lives, the world can feel suddenly unrecognizable. Routines lose their meaning, the future feels uncertain, and even simple tasks can seem overwhelming. In these moments, resilience becomes one of the most valuable tools a person can draw upon. What resilience really means Resilience is often misunderstood. It does not mean being unaffected by pain, staying strong at all times, or “bouncing back” as though nothing happened. Rather, resilience is the capacity to adapt to hardship, to absorb the impact of a painful experience, and to gradually find a way forward while carrying the loss with you. Grieving deeply and being resilient are not opposites. In fact, they often go hand in hand. Why it matters Trauma and bereavement can affect every part of life: emotional health, physical well-being, relationships, work, and sense of purpose. Without ways to cope and adapt, people may become stuck in prolonged distress, withdraw from those who care about them, or turn to unhealthy habits to numb the pain. Resilience offers a counterweight. It helps people process difficult emotions rather than avoid them, maintain a sense of agency when life feels out of control, and protect their long-term mental and physical health. Research on grief and trauma consistently shows that most people possess more capacity to recover than they realize. Many eventually experience what psychologists call post-traumatic growth: a deeper appreciation for life, stronger relationships, a clearer sense of values, or a renewed sense of purpose that emerged from suffering. Growth does not erase the pain, but it can give it meaning. How resilience is built Resilience is not a fixed trait that some people are born with and others lack. It can be nurtured through everyday choices and supportive relationships. Lean on connection. Social support is among the strongest predictors of recovery. Sharing feelings with trusted friends, family, faith communities, or support groups reminds us that we are not alone. Care for the body. Sleep, nutrition, movement, and time outdoors may seem small, but they steady the nervous system and give us energy to cope. Allow all emotions. Sadness, anger, guilt, numbness, and even moments of laughter are normal responses. Suppressing feelings tends to prolong suffering, while acknowledging them helps them move through. Create small anchors. Maintaining simple routines, setting modest daily goals, and honoring a loved one through rituals or memorials can restore a sense of stability and continuity. Seek professional help. Therapists and grief counselors offer tools tailored to individual needs. Reaching out is not a sign of weakness; it is a resilient act in itself. Patience with the process Healing is not a linear process. There will be good days followed by difficult ones, and anniversaries or reminders can bring waves of emotion back unexpectedly. Resilience means returning to self-compassion each time, treating yourself with the same kindness you would offer a grieving friend. Moving forward, not moving on Ultimately, resilience is not about forgetting or “getting over” what happened. It is about building a life that can hold both sorrow and hope. For those facing trauma or the death of a loved one, cultivating resilience is an act of care for oneself and for the memory of those we have lost. With time, support, and patience, it makes it possible to move forward, carrying love and loss together.

You've probably been told, in some form, that you need to let go. You don't. You do not need to let go of your person, the memories, or the grief to re-engage with life. Healthy grieving is not so narrowly defined as that. The relationship with your person changes from one with a physical body to something else. You learn to carry them differently: maybe you tell stories about shared experiences, write them letters, talk to them (or sometimes even yell at them), take up a cause that was important to them, or simply raise a glass on their special day in their name. Over time, it's not that the grief gets smaller. It's that your life grows bigger around it. After my husband Rick died, I couldn't face those memories because they reminded me of what I had lost, day in and day out, it was too much to take in at once. Eventually, after many walks on the beach, therapy sessions, meditation, and conversations with friends and family, I was able to return to and embrace the memories. That was a choice I made, not one a professional forced on me or my family insisted upon. It naturally evolved with time and experience. Now those memories feel good to recall or retell, and I have not lost my connection to Rick or the life we shared.  — Kim Shute

I have recently been watching Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story on Netflix in part because the murders took place just down the road from Aquidneck Island in Fall River, but also because it is a wild story ; a woman is accused of murdering her father and stepmother with an axe, is tried and ultimately aquitted. While the show takes many creative liberties, it weaves a good story, although quite blood at times (definitely best not to eat while watching this one). It got me thinking about our fascination with death. Why are we so fascinated by it? Why do we binge true crime podcasts and visit exhibits of preserved bodies and tour catacombs on vacation? Yet ask us to write a will, discuss funeral preferences, or sit with a dying relative, and we suddenly dread thinking about it. We are drawn to morbidity but recoil from our own mortality. Death at a Safe Distance The answer may lie in distance. Morbid curiosity, the pull toward the dark, violent, or macabre, is almost always experienced from a position of safety. A documentary about a serial killer unfolds on a screen. A skull in a museum case belongs to someone long gone. These encounters let us rehearse danger without risk. Psychologists have suggested that such curiosity serves a purpose : it helps us learn about threats and possible scenarios that we should consider be afraid of. Personal mortality offers no such buffer. Thinking about our own death, or that of someone we love, collapses the distance entirely. There is no screen, no glass case, no narrator. The thing we have been studying from afar turns out to be a description of us. The Sanitization of Dying Modern life has also made death easier to avoid. A century ago, most people died at home, and families washed and laid out their own dead. Today, dying largely happens in hospitals and care facilities, and the aftermath is handled by professionals. Many adults reach middle age without ever seeing a dead body. Fear Dressed as Fascination There is a theory, popularized in the work of anthropologist Ernest Becker, that much of human culture is an attempt to deny our mortality. Seen this way, morbid entertainment may be less a contradiction than a coping strategy. By confronting death in controlled, symbolic doses, we can manage the anxiety it provokes. Horror films and series give us that ability to observe from afar. Closing the Gap But we have noticed a shift in the culture. Death cafés invite strangers to discuss mortality over tea and death doulas support families during end-of-life stages. These movements suggest a hunger to bring death back into ordinary life. Perhaps our fascination with the morbid is not a flaw but a clue. It reveals a mind that wants to understand death, even as it flinches from it. Maybe we turn that curiosity inward, to approach our own ending with the same attention, Maybe we will find that looking directly at mortality can make life feel more precious, not less.

For generations, the traditional American funeral meant a polished hardwood or steel casket. But recently, we’ve noticed a trend of families and even celebrities choosing something simpler: a casket woven by hand from willow, bamboo, seagrass, or rattan. In fact, in the news recen Once a niche option, the woven basket casket has moved into the mainstream of end-of-life planning. Recently, there was an article in the BBC about a woman who wove her own parents' caskets, and she said it brought her a sense of closeness to her loved ones. What are woven basket caskets? Woven caskets are often made by artisans who bend and interlace natural fibers around a sturdy, natural frame. Willow is the classic choice, valued in Britain for centuries and still grown and harvested for this purpose. Bamboo, banana leaf, water hyacinth, and seagrass are also common alternatives, each with its aesthetic. Most models include a cotton or linen lining and rope or woven handles, and are sturdy enough to be carried by pallbearers like more traditional coffins. Why are families choosing them? Many people choose these caskets because they want an option that is kinder for the environment. Historically, coffins were built by cabinet makers, then evolved into it's own specialty. While it is usuallly a practical choice simply to transport the deceased, they have taken on many other meanings for families. Around the world, caskets can be for health purposes, and in some countries they are built to display what the person did for a living, like a fish-shaped coffin for a fisherman or a taxi cab painted coffin for a cab driver. In the US, generally more modest personalizations are done, like emblems, engravings and embroidery to share a similar sentiment, in more understated ways. The woven casket is a green choice for most, but it can simply be an aesthetic one; handmade, natural, and simple. If you choose burial, it can make a significant environmental difference if you choose a natural burial site where they do not require a concrete burial vault that more traditional cemeteries require. However, you can bury basket casket in any cemetery, there are no restrictions. Conventional caskets often have metal, varnish, and hardware that persist in the ground for decades. Woven caskets are made from renewable, biodegradable materials, which makes them a natural fit for green burial. Many green cemeteries and natural burial grounds require caskets that break down quickly, and woven caskets meet those standards. Then there is the emotional appeal. A woven casket feels warm and personal, closer to a garden or a homestead than a showroom. Families often say the natural look reflects the life of someone who loved the outdoors, farming, or simple living. A shift in attitudes The trend fits a broader change in how people approach death. There is a rising interest in green and personalized funerals. Younger generations in particular tend to ask for eco-conscious, and less formal services. Woven caskets suit cremation too, since many crematories accept them, and they pair well with celebrations of life that feel less ceremonial and more intimate. The UK has a longer tradition here. Willow coffins have been common there for decades, and the country's natural burial movement helped normalize them well before the idea took hold here in the U.S. There are over 300 natural burial sites across the UK. In the U.S., there are a pproximately 220. Things to consider Woven caskets are not right for every situation. Most cemeteries require an outer burial container or vault, which can undercut the environmental benefit. Weight capacity varies by maker, and open-weave designs suit some services better than others. Anyone considering one should check cemetery regulations, confirm that a crematory will accept it, and ask about size and weight limits. Woven caskets have moved from the margins to a recognized choice because they answer what many people now want: a farewell that is affordable, gentle on the earth, and personal. As green burial grounds multiply and conversations about death become more open, this centuries-old craft looks set to make a comeback.

Stacey Malcom is a child life specialist that runs her own practice, Healing Hearts on Aquidneck Island. Through her work, she helps children and their caregivers navigate loss and illness. Arguably some of the hardest moments a family will ever face. From creating customized, age-appropriate resources to facilitating meaningful memory-making experiences, Malcom discusses how she works with families during these moments. What led you to this work? Originally, I went to school to become a teacher, but halfway through my bachelor’s degree, I realized it wasn’t the right fit. I knew I loved working with children, but I was also really drawn to the medical side of supporting them. My counselor told me, “You’re describing a child life specialist—you need to look into it.” I had never heard of child life before, but once I learned about it, I knew it was exactly what I wanted to do. Certified Child Life Specialists are trained to help children and families cope with stressful and often overwhelming experiences. I’ve worked in emergency departments, the NICU, PICU, oncology, and other pediatric settings, helping children through procedures, hospitalizations, diagnoses, and loss. Over time, I found a particular passion for supporting children and families through grief and end-of-life experiences—whether that means the death of a parent, sibling, grandparent, friend, or even a beloved pet. There is something incredibly meaningful about being invited into those difficult moments and helping a family find a way through them. What grief support do you provide? When a family comes to Healing Hearts, I usually start by meeting with the caregivers to understand what is happening and what their child needs. Sometimes that means creating a customized book that explains what is happening in language the child can understand. That could be preparing a child for the death of a loved one in hospice, helping them understand a sibling’s serious diagnosis, talking about a perinatal loss, or helping them process a sudden death. Families send me photographs and details about the people, routines, and things that are meaningful to their child. I combine those personal pieces with developmentally appropriate explanations about grief, death, illness, and emotions. The goal is to create something that feels like their story—not just a generic book about grief. I also provide one-on-one sessions in families’ homes. I bring books, therapeutic activities, play materials, and other resources and create a plan specifically for that child and family. Grief also changes over time. Something that makes sense to a four-year-old may bring up completely different questions when that child is six or eight. My support can evolve alongside the family. Talking to children about death Adults often struggle to talk about death themselves, so having that conversation with a child can feel incredibly difficult. Children also process grief differently than adults. A child may be deeply upset one moment and then ask to go play five minutes later. They may ask the same question repeatedly: “Where is Grandpa?” or “When is he coming home?” That can all be a normal part of how children process and understand loss. One of the most important things we encourage families to do is use clear, concrete language. We use words like “death,” “died,” and “dying” rather than phrases such as “went to sleep” or “went away.” Those phrases can be confusing for young children and can unintentionally create fears or misconceptions. How do you create the customized books? I have several templates that I’ve developed, but every book becomes specific to the child and family. The book may explain that someone has died, that someone is going to die, or what a child might see when visiting someone who is very sick. If a loved one is in hospice or a baby is in the NICU, for example, there may be machines, tubes, sounds, and unfamiliar people. I can explain those things in simple, age-appropriate language before the child encounters them. I also incorporate photographs of the family and the child's everyday life—the people they love, activities they enjoy, their routines, and places that are important to them. That makes the book familiar and meaningful. Many families use the books at bedtime or during quiet moments when questions naturally come up. It gives caregivers something tangible to reach for when they aren't sure how to start the conversation. The books can also change. If a family tells me, “This page doesn't fit anymore,” we can replace it. If circumstances change or new questions arise, we can add pages. The resource grows with the child and family. What is memory making? Memory making is about creating tangible connections during a person's life or around the time of their death. That could include fingerprint charms, a lock of hair, hand molds, family handprint canvases, or other meaningful keepsakes. These activities give children and families something concrete that connects them to the person they love. Legacy building is slightly different. There doesn't necessarily have to be an imminent death. It focuses on preserving someone's story, personality, relationships, and memories so those connections can continue into the future. What keeps you doing this work? I find so much meaning in helping families through the hard moments. When a family reaches out after a session—or even months later—and says, “What you did really helped our family,” that's what keeps me going. Grief can consume a family. Sometimes parents become so focused on everything that is happening that it becomes difficult to allow their children—and themselves—to simply be together and be a family. Part of my role is helping bring some of that back and reminding everyone that even in the middle of grief, kids still need opportunities to be kids. How do you help children with funerals and visitations? I often receive referrals from funeral homes, hospices, hospitals, or directly from families. Before the funeral, I help prepare children for what they are going to see and experience. We talk about what a visitation is, what a casket might look like, what happens during the service or burial, and the emotions they may see from the adults around them. Children deserve to know what to expect. I also remind caregivers that it's okay for their children to see emotion. We can say, “You might see people crying today because they are sad and they miss this person very much.” I've also attended funerals to support children through the experience itself. Sometimes that means explaining what's happening. Sometimes it means helping them take a break when everything becomes overwhelming. Children don't have to experience every moment of a funeral in the same way adults do. Support can also happen afterward. A child may process the experience days or weeks later through questions, behaviors, or play. We can revisit what happened, use therapeutic play to reenact parts of the experience, answer questions, and help them make sense of what they saw and felt. The goal isn't to take grief away. It's to make sure children don't have to navigate it without understanding what's happening around them.

We talk almost every Wednesday morning. It is a standing check-in, but the details of our lives rarely stay on the surface for long. An errand or a passing remark about the weather has a way of leading somewhere more private, a question worth sitting with, something one of us has been mulling about and needs the other to chime in with another perspective or a perfect sentiment. We have built up enough trust over the years to say the harder things out loud, the things you cannot say to just anyone. Last week she took a full breath, the kind I know comes from deep within, even before she told me. The pear tree had to come down. I used to be her gardener. I know that tree well. Not only that, but I know the roughness of its bark through gloved hands because I touched it so many times over the years, pruning, harvesting, collecting fallen refuse, and just resting a hand on it the way you do with something familiar. It was a good climbing tree once. It was a gnarled, opinionated old thing, the kind of tree that drops its fruit everywhere in the fall and does not apologize for it. The pears would pelt the grass, and sometimes an unlucky passerby would draw in the sweet-loving stinging insects that come for anything left to soften in the sun in late fall. I used to race those insects for the pears. I would gather as many as I could before they found them or before they found me. Homegrown pears are not perfect. They get little hard spots, the kind that make a bite less pleasant than the grocery store variety or the local orchard. It never mattered to me. Food is food, and these were never just pears. I turned them into pear butter, into pies, into fruit leather that lasted long after the season had ended. She gave them to me out of love, and I took them out of love for her. That tree held a place in her heart that went beyond the fruit. Her husband, an engineer through and through, was the one who tended the hedges and the lawn. Together they decided about the trees on their land. He has been gone nearly five years now, and his absence still finds her in small ways every day and in bigger ways that arrive unexpectedly. Losing the tree was one of those bigger ways. It brought the grief back up, sharp and unexpected, almost like waiting for that first anniversary all over again. This is the part of grief that nobody quite warns you about. You think you have done the work. You think you have found your footing after a loss, and then something ordinary happens; a tree needs to come down, a chair gets replaced, a song comes on the radio, and you are right back at the beginning of the feeling, even though the actual loss happened years ago. Grief does not stay contained to the one door it came through. It finds new ones, ones you did not know were there until they open. The tree came down last Friday. What is left now is the work of finding something new to plant, something that will one day offer its own shade on a hot afternoon. There is a short list developing for consideration. That will take a bit more time, and it should. What does not need replanting are the pictures we already have, the ones in our memories and the ones she captured herself over the years with her photographer's eye. And there is still a Wednesday morning phone call, where two people can sit with a hard feeling together and know they will be safe saying it out loud. 

Tucked into the landscape of Prudence Island, a new kind of resting place is taking root—one guided not by manicured lawns and polished headstones, but by the rhythms of the natural world. Prudence Memorial Park was founded on a simple but powerful idea: that the land we return to in death can also be the land we protect for life. The 3.2-acre natural burial ground is located on the southern end of Prudence Island’s highest ridgeline and overlooks the east passage of Narragansett Bay. Prudence Island is accessible by a 30-minute ferry ride from Church Street Wharf in Bristol, Rhode Island, with the on-island ferry landing located near the intersection of Pier Road and Narragansett Avenue on Prudence Island. For more information, visit Prudence & Bay Islands Transport for scheduling and reservation information. A place shaped by purpose Prudence Memorial Park exists to serve several intertwined goals at once. It aims to shape and preserve a natural area for the benefit of the environment and offer a final resting place for not just Prudence Island residents but anyone who wants a more natural option after their passing. The scenic landscape creates a quiet space for reflection that will welcome visitors for generations to come. Rather than treating burial as separate from conservation, the park treats them as one and the same effort. What natural burial means At the heart of the park's mission is natural burial—an approach to interment that allows a body to decompose and return to the earth without interference from embalming chemicals, non-biodegradable caskets, or concrete vaults. It's a practice built on minimal environmental impact, letting the natural cycle of decomposition unfold as it always has in nature. The park supports this through services connected to the burial of human remains and cremated remains, all grounded in green burial principles. What the park offers The organization handles the practical, land-based side of natural burial: selling burial rights, allotting plots, opening and closing graves, installing memorial markers, maintaining records, and caring for the property itself. A full breakdown of these services is available in their price list . What the park does not do is act as a funeral home. It doesn't provide funeral directing or handle other after-death care needs. Here at Memorial Funeral Home, we are proud to work with Prudence Memorial Park and our community members. With us, you will be able to work with a licensed funeral director for every step of the way to ensure that all the wishes of your loved one are accomplished. We are constantly working to understand better the needs of our community, as well as what is required by our associates who offer these different types of services. For example, at Prudence Memorial Park, there are several options for internment; a body can be placed in a simple shroud that is made of natural materials, and/or be placed in a cardboard or wooden coffin. Educating yourself before you decide Because green burial is still unfamiliar territory for many, the Green Burial Council offers educational resources designed to help people understand their options clearly before deciding. Taking time with this material—whether you're planning for yourself or a loved one—can make an emotionally difficult process feel more grounded and intentional. This form can also be helpful in organizing your wishes. It is important to note that purchasing the right to be buried at Prudence Memorial Park does not mean you purchase a specific plot, although you can generally choose roughly the area of the 3.2 acres where you would like to be. The specific location is assigned sequentially so that the land can be left undisturbed after the burial to encourage the return of native vegetation. As a result, it is Prudence Memorial Park management, not the family, who determines the exact location of the plot, and this determination is not made until it is time for the burial.  Burial rights can be purchased on a pre-need basis (before a burial is needed) or on an at-need basis (when a burial is needed), although it is recommended to buy burial rights on a pre-need basis because it gives people the opportunity to learn more about natural burial and make an informed decision about final disposition when they are free of the stress that comes with the death of a loved one. If two or more people choose to be buried together, Prudence Memorial Park management also determines the location of the combined lot placement, and that determination is made when the first grave is used. The purchase of burial rights requires a signed purchase agreement that includes an agreement to abide by the rules and regulations concerning the type and placement of memorial markers and the planting of trees and flowers. A certificate of ownership will be issued by Prudence Memorial Park and should be retained by the purchaser to serve as proof of purchase. The one step that matters most Whatever path you choose, one piece of advice stands above the rest: document your wishes and share them with the people who will carry them out. Even the most thoughtful, carefully researched plan is only as good as the people who know about it. Prudence Memorial Park offers the land and the framework—but the conversation, the paperwork, and the sharing of your intentions are steps only you can take.

A documentary that will make you laugh and cry.

Before this review begins, a confession: when a book becomes a film and a reader walks out of the movie disappointed, whose problem is that? The filmmakers or the readers? I have been sitting with that question since the first Harry Potter movie came out.  This month I was eagerly awaiting the release of Remarkably Brights Creatures based on the Shelby Van Pelt book I adored. When Netflix announced the adaptation, I allowed myself to get excited. What arrived is a film that is not bad, exactly, but one that never settles into the unhurried, heartfelt book I remember. Tova is the stoic, lonely, and tormented protagonist who is plagued by an unresolved grief event 30 years earlier. Marcellus is her aging, intelligent, and determined giant Pacific octopus friend from the aquarium where she works. Unfortunately, the film doesn't trust the patience that the slow unfolding of the book required. It wants to get somewhere fast, and in doing so, it loses the slow build that gave the book a quiet, magical power. Computer-generated imagery is a real stumbling block for me. I want to trust what I see and that is becoming harder here in 2026. Marcellus’ digital rendering and other underwater scenes pulled me out of the moment as I was so aware that it was not “real”. I was so aware of the artificial nature that I couldn’t stay in the moment. A story that depends on a genuine emotional connection between a woman and a cephalopod cannot afford to look fake, unless it is claymation which this film is NOT. What the film does carry is grief and loss at its core. The grief has touched Tova through the loss of her husband and their son; it touches the aspiring musician, Cameron, through the recent loss of his biological mother, and Marcellus has loss in his captivity. Their bond is supposed to be the film's steadiest ground, and yet even here, something feels held at arm's length; the performances occasionally unable to close the distance. The ending wraps everything up so neatly that it undercuts the bittersweet sadness that made the book what it was. Life doesn't resolve like that. I found myself wondering whether, after a few years of things not resolving cleanly in the real world, we have started to ask our stories to do it for us. I understand that impulse, but I'm just not sure it serves this particular story. If you haven't read the novel, you may find more to enjoy here than I did. If you have, go in with tempered expectations and maybe give Marcellus the benefit of the doubt even when the screen doesn't quite do him justice.