I love celebrating Dušičky, or All Souls’ Day. This year felt especially meaningful as I reflected on my spiritual journey and my learning as a death doula candidate. It was an opportunity to remember those who came before me and to consider how my relationship with death has changed.
As a child in Slovakia, I helped make wreaths and visited family graves. At the time, I associated these rituals mainly with sadness. Funerals felt heavy, and death frightened me. I was young and dependent on the adults around me; the possibility of losing them made me feel vulnerable. Death seemed final, and we rarely talked about it.
Over time, my spiritual journey opened a different way of understanding death. Learning about the old ways of my Slavic ancestors, their close relationship with the land, and stories of reincarnation and near-death experiences helped me see death as a journey, a transformation or a return home. These ideas have become meaningful to me, and I no longer feel the fear I once did.
When we immigrated to Canada, we left behind not only living family members but also the cemeteries where we gathered on Dušičky. Here, we have found another way to keep that connection alive: we gather at home, light candles for our loved ones, look at photographs and share their stories.
This year, we also talked about how our ancestors understood death and cared for those who had died. Not everyone in my family shares my beliefs or has followed the same journey. Some conversations were difficult, but there was a willingness to talk and reflect. I wanted to make room for those differences, rather than persuade anyone to see death as I do.
We used a deck of cards with questions about death to help begin the conversation. Some invited reflection: “What do you believe happens after death?” Others were more playful: “If you had one last day on Earth and no limits on what you could do, how would you spend it?” Another asked what a tattoo appearing on your body at the time of your death might symbolize about your life or identity. These questions offered a gentler way into a subject that can feel frightening. As more of us shared, others seemed to become more comfortable speaking, too.
What touched me most about the Slovak traditions we discussed was the sense that death belonged within family and community life. People were often born at home and died there, too. Death brought sorrow, but caring for the person who had died was something families and neighbours did together.
Many customs reflected a belief that the soul left the body and began a journey beyond the world of the living. In some places, a window was opened to let the soul leave. Clocks were stopped to mark the end of the person’s earthly time, and mirrors were covered. These gestures helped mark a time of loss and transition.
Families washed the person’s body, dressed them in clean clothes and prepared them for burial. Rather than immediately handing over that care to funeral services, they spent time with the person and said goodbye. Family, friends and neighbours gathered for a vigil, sometimes staying through the night. They prayed, sang, shared stories and ate together; in some places, they also played games. The person who had died was not left alone.
There was room for grief to be expressed openly. In the tradition of nariekanie, or funeral lamenting, people spoke or sang their sorrow, sometimes addressing the person who had died directly. Their words might express love, gratitude and farewell: “We love you. We will miss you. We remember what you did for us. Now you can go.” These laments were believed to help settle the soul and allow it to leave peacefully.
The community then accompanied the person to the grave. In some Slovak communities, the procession moved very slowly, reflecting the idea that neither body nor soul was in a hurry to enter eternity. After the burial, people gathered for a meal called kar. It might be a large meal or simply bread and pálenka, with an old custom of breaking the bread rather than cutting it. Even in sorrow, people came together.
Grief did not end with the funeral. Mourning could last about a year, with changes in clothing and time away from dancing and celebrations. These visible signs acknowledged that the bereaved needed time. To me, this is one of the most meaningful lessons in these traditions: grief deserves space, rather than an expectation that we quickly return to life as it was.
Nor did the relationship with the person who had died simply disappear. Families continued to visit graves, pray, light candles and remember. In some traditions, food and drink were left for the souls of the dead, including inside the family home. On Dušičky, some believed that the souls of loved ones might draw near again. An old account from a Village in Slovakia, Detva, describes families lighting one candle for each deceased family member, offering light to those who had died.
Learning about these customs helped me see our own gathering in a new light. When we light candles, look at photographs, tell stories and leave meaningful offerings, we continue that practice of remembrance in our own way. We do not have to share the same beliefs about what happens after death to honour the people we love.
For me, death is part of nature, just as birth is. Leaves fall and return to the earth. Plants die, and new growth appears. Generations come before us, and others follow. This understanding does not take away the pain of losing someone, but it helps me hold grief alongside a sense of connection.
Our ancestors’ customs remind me that grief and love can exist together. We can cry for those who have died and laugh at a funny memory. We can say their names, tell their stories and light a candle. Even when someone’s life ends, the love, stories and gifts they leave behind can continue through us.
As a death doula candidate, I am learning that supporting others does not mean asking them to adopt my understanding of death. It means meeting them where they are, listening to their fears and hopes, and respecting the beliefs and needs that shape their journey. Our family conversation gave me an opportunity to practise that kind of listening.
This Dušičky reminded me that there is much to learn from our ancestors, not only about death, but about how we care for one another while we are living. For me, remembering them is both an act of love and an invitation to bring that care into the present.
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