Let me be clear from the start: today’s article is not about superstition or sensationalism. These are simply some remarkable personal experiences I’ve accumulated over the years — shared purely to give you all a good story to chew on.
After all, tomorrow is Qingming (the Tomb-Sweeping Festival), and some conversations feel more fitting at certain times.
Let me ask you something first: have you ever wondered where we go after life ends?
Complete nothingness? An endless sleep? Or the next turn of the reincarnation (轮回) cycle?
Honestly, when Master Chi was young, I was absolutely convinced that when the body fades, consciousness fades with it — that all of this life simply dissolves back into dust. But after certain experiences and certain encounters, my thinking began to shift.
The first was during the years I lived in Vancouver, North America. For quite a long stretch, I spent my free time volunteering at a local hospice, offering whatever help I could to elderly patients and the terminally ill in their final stage of life.
But after spending time with enough patients, I noticed something remarkable: every single person who had been resuscitated — pulled back from death’s door — described experiences that were strikingly, almost identically, similar.
Many described slipping into what we call the “life-lantern” state (走马灯) — that flash-review of one’s entire life — as their consciousness dimmed and they sensed the end approaching. A flood of memories rushed in, from infancy through childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, prime years, middle age, and old age — each moment rendered in complete detail yet passing in a rapid stream.
Events they had no conscious memory of returned with the vivid clarity of live footage — complete with sounds, smells, tastes, and the exact emotional texture of those original moments. The whole experience was like living one’s entire life over again, compressed into an instant.
After the life-lantern ended, many would find themselves inside a dark tunnel, with a brilliant yet deeply comforting light at the far end. Then something interesting happened: every single person who came back reported the same thing — while moving toward the light, they suddenly heard the voices of people around them. Their consciousness then drifted away from the light, back into darkness, until they woke up again.
Take note: I tracked this carefully, and this experience showed no variation across age, culture, or ethnicity. Ninety-nine percent of everyone with a near-death experience described exactly this.
Naturally, this left me increasingly curious — and unsettled — about what might come after.
The other experience that convinced me “the ending is not a full stop” was this: around every Qingming and Ghost Festival (中元节), my dreams become noticeably stranger. Even when I had no idea the festivals were approaching, a sudden wave of unusual dreams was always a reliable signal — one glance at the calendar would confirm it.
Admittedly, I am someone with a strong intuitive sense — I wouldn’t be able to make a living from Chinese metaphysics (玄学) and Feng Shui otherwise. But many of these dreams have genuinely astonished me.
When I was a teenager, just before Qingming, I had a dream in which an elderly man sat with me and spoke at length about the history of my ancestral lineage. When I woke, I dismissed it as coincidence — the old man’s words just the wanderings of my own imagination. But when I returned to China and met extended family members for the first time, I mentioned the dream at a gathering. When we compared the details, everyone went cold — because the events I’d dreamed of were things long buried in time, stories no living person had known.
Just a couple of nights ago, another dream jolted me awake in the middle of the night. In it, an elder who passed away a couple of years ago came to me with a complaint: their dwelling kept leaking water. The neighbors were friendly enough, they said, but they hoped I could help take care of it.
The following morning, I called a groundskeeper at the cemetery and asked him to take a look. He got back to me shortly after — the elder’s tombstone had indeed developed a crack. Fortunately, they replaced the stone promptly.
Experiences like these inevitably make you wonder: what, exactly, is happening in the unseen dimension beyond?
This is why, on Qingming itself, I clear my entire schedule. I focus on the ancestral rites during daylight hours, and unless there’s a genuine emergency, I make a point of being indoors before sunset. Not for any dramatic reason — simply because I’d rather not invite unnecessary complications or expose myself to unhelpful negative energy.
Let me also share a few notes on proper Qingming observance, because I’ve noticed that many important and genuinely effective traditions have quietly faded from memory. Trust me on these — they matter:
1 — Watch your words. Don’t casually bring up topics related to ghosts or spirits. The living and the departed each occupy their own realm — let everyone rest easy without disturbance.
2 — If you’re burning offering paper, do so between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., when Yang energy is at its absolute peak. This is the ideal window.
3 — While burning the offerings, you may silently think of minor matters you’d like assistance with. Minor matters only — don’t burden ordinary souls with major affairs. That is simply beyond their capacity.
4 — If you have dinner plans that evening, avoid quiet, upscale venues. The ideal spot is somewhere loud, lively, and full of human warmth — tables crowded, voices overlapping, smoke and drink in the air. If you can spot a few red-faced, boisterous drinkers, even better.
5 — Avoid anything that depletes your vital energy (Chi). This includes intense physical exertion or anything that leaves you breathless.
6 — If you own gold jewelry, today is exactly the right occasion to wear it.