Are you in awe of ghosts and spirits?
Woven deeply into Chinese culture are many beliefs and practices related to appeasing ghosts and spirits—some are religious but others are not. Growing up, my family has always observed those rituals despite us being agnostic. I once asked my dad why we were doing this. He said, “We don’t know what we don’t know. So, why go against the traditions?”
This is a story about some of those customs.
The Qingming Festival
Every year, on the fifteenth day after the Spring Equinox, Chinese people observe the Qingming Festival (清明節). The origins of this celebration date back to the Western Zhou Dynasty (1046 BC to 771 BC), when rulers considered the start of spring—a season of vibrant renewal and growth—auspicious for paying tributes to their ancestors. Over time, this practice was adopted by commoners, making the Qingming Festival one of the four preeminent festivities in Chinese culture.
On the day of the Qingming Festival, families visit the graves of their ancestors to clear away weeds and lay out offerings. Before they leave, they place colorful papers, weighted down by small rocks, on the graves and tombstones.
But why?
Legend has it that after decades of civil wars, Liu Bang finally emerged victorious and became the first emperor of the Western Han Dynasty (202 BC to 9AD). Wishing to honor his parents, he set out to find their graves. Although he knew the approximate location, he could not find the correct ones. In front of him was a vast hilly field dotted with countless neglected, broken tombstones, many towered over by high grass. Liu Bang and his soldiers searched for hours to no avail. As it grew dark and windy, he tore a sheet of paper into many small pieces and prayed, “Dear Heavenly God, I am going to toss these pieces into the sky. Show me your mercy—make one of them fall to the right spot and not be carried away by the wind.” After that, he threw the pieces into the air. All but one piece were blown away. Liu Bang rushed over to inspect, and voila, he found his parents’ graves! Since then, it has become customary to mark graves and tombstones with colorful papers so others know these are well cared for.
Liu Bang might have used whatever scrap paper he had on hand. Today, the papers used for the Qingming Festival are sold by shops specializing in incense sticks and other burnable objects. These items are intended to help the dead live comfortably in the underworld.
Say what?
Underworld Economy
Money talks—it’s true for the living as well as for the dead. The exact origins of this concept are hard to pin down, though evidence shows that both Buddhism and Taoism embrace the practice.
Chinese people believe that there is a robust economy in the underworld. To that end, we burn gold and silver yuanbao (元寶), along with stacks of large denomination bills in various currencies: New Taiwan Dollars, Chinese Yuan, US. Dollars, and Euro. If we want to send mobile phones, cars, or even houses to the loved ones in the underworld, we can do that, too!
Everything going into incinerators is an imitation of real items, updated to keep pace with the times. Yuanbao, for example, was an old form of currency used long before the adoption of paper money. Over the years, specialized shops have expanded their selection to include local and several major international currencies that are in circulation.
The rational side of me tells me that burning these paper offerings is symbolic. There’s no underworld economy. But would I stop doing it? Absolutely not!
On the morning of October 18, 2017, out of nowhere, my dad told my mom he’d like to have more money on him. Having been confined mostly to a wheelchair for a few years already, he didn’t go out much and thus didn’t really need money. Nevertheless, my mom chuckled and said, “No problem! You can have as much as you’d like.” Hearing that made my dad happy. Soon, he announced he was going to take a nap, and he never woke up. He passed away peacefully in his sleep. That night, we burned a lot of yuanbao, and paper money.
Symbolic as this custom may be, it gives me great comfort to think that my dad will find contentment in his afterlife.
Banquet for Ancestors
Every year, my family hosts a dinner party on the eve of Chinese New Year. We start by laying out sweets, fruits, and tea. My sister, who took over the role after our dad passed away, lights an incense stick and heads downstairs. She opens the gate, bows, and steps aside, inviting our ancestors to come and partake in the feast.
Back in the apartment, she places the incense stick in the burner. Each family member, holding an incense stick, takes turns stepping forward and bowing to each chair around the dining table. Afterwards, we line up, bow together, and place the incense sticks in the burner. For the next hour, about the time it takes for the incense sticks to burn off, we quietly let our distinguished, formless guests enjoy the first course. Then we clear the table and put out an expansive spread of main courses, followed by another round of bowing.
As another hour passes and the incense sticks are nearly burned out, it’s time for the send-off. My sister, holding a glass of wine and a new incense stick, ushers the spirits downstairs. Outside the gate, she bows, thanking them for their visit. She carefully pours wine on the ground, forming the Chinese character 心—meaning “heart”—to express our gratitude and commitment to keeping their memory in our hearts. Before returning upstairs, she places the incense stick in the holder by the gate. Once this final gesture is complete, we reheat the food and begin our dinner.
Growing up, I was always fascinated by this elaborate tradition, half expecting—in equal parts trepidation and excitement—to witness some supernatural events: chopsticks floating in the air, dinnerware clicking, throats clearing, that sort of thing. Thankfully, nothing unusual ever happened; otherwise, I would have screamed and upset our ancestors.
I used to think every family performed the same rituals on the eve of Chinese New Year, but that’s not the case. Pouring wine to write out the Chinese character for “heart”, for example, is one of the unique twists my family has added to the otherwise common tradition. My grandfather moved from China to Taiwan in 1949. I’m not sure if this practice was something he brought with him or if he created it on his own. However, one particular protocol was definitely his invention: the guest list.
During my dad’s upbringing, six chairs were laid out around the dining table for the annual banquet. These were reserved for the immediate three generations of my grandfather: his parents, his paternal grandparents, and his paternal great-grandparents. Then my grandmother protested, “What about my parents?” He acquiesced readily. The updated guest list included his parents, his paternal grandparents, and my grandmother’s parents—one for each of the six chairs.
Later on, we added a chair to the seating arrangement after my grandfather passed away, and then one more after my grandmother passed away. For quite a long time, the same four pairs of ancestors would come and dine. Needless to say, there’s an obvious flaw in the design of this guest list: limited seating. I once asked my dad teasingly, “How would our ancestors know that they have been rolled off the roster?” or “For those who have been removed, where would they go to eat?” Nonchalant to my nonsensical questions, he simply smiled and said, “They know and they are fine. What really matters is the thought and respect we keep in our hearts.”
In recent years, as we prepare for our annual banquet, we place nine chairs around the dining table for my dad, my paternal grandparents, my paternal great-grandparents, my paternal great-great-grandparents, and my mom’s parents. Noticeably absent are my grandmother’s parents. For some inexplicable reason, the whole notion of this ever-evolving guest list troubles me, even though I know I should not interpret the tradition so literally.
There’s a potential solution to this conundrum, but it presents a significant obstacle. Many followers of Buddhism and Taoism maintain an altar at home, faithfully attending to it daily. At the center of this altar is a spirit tablet—a rectangular wooden board inscribed with reverential words honoring their entire ancestry. In these households, the banquet is presented to all ancestors rather than a selected few. However, as our household is agnostic, adopting an altar and spirit tablet would feel disingenuous and very inappropriate.
In the end, my dad had it right: No matter the formalities, it’s the thought and respect that truly count. Pouring wine to meticulously form the Chinese character for “heart” is a ritual passed down through generations, symbolizing our deep reverence for family bonds and ancestral traditions. Each careful stroke of the character represents not just a gesture of gratitude but a tangible link to those who came before us, reminding us of their enduring presence in our lives. These small yet meaningful acts provide continuity and strength, bridging the gap between generations and shaping our collective journey forward.