Good Grief

A new perspective on death, grief & remembrance – paving the way for change through trend research & innovation consulting

11/08/2026

Cemetery of the Nameless
…on the German island of Neuwerk in the North Sea
The cemetery was founded in 1319. For many years, the bodies of unknown drowned people were buried here.

Most of the graves date back to the early 20th century, the last one from 1969. Today, almost all drowned people can be identified thanks to improved genetic testing.

Each grave in this emergency cemetery is marked with a simple wooden cross. No names, only the date of discovery carved into it (some of the newer crosses don’t even have that anymore - I hope that they will add the dates again).

More recently, the site has been gently extended. Wooden pillars made from old coastal sheet piling (“Spundwand”) now stand nearby, carrying the names of people who died on the island or whose ashes were given to the sea around it.

It’s a very special place. Quiet, a bit hidden and protected from the winds in a little forest - and very moving.

At its center, there is a beautiful poem (which I don’t dare to translate into English, sorry):

Heimatlos! Wie weh das klingt.
Namenlos ins Grab gesenkt,
Das kein Mutterarm umschlingt,
Dem kein Bruder Blumen schenkt.

Ach, im Wind, der diesen Stein,
Diesen Hügeln umweht,
Wird manch banges Klagen sein,
Das Euch weinend suchen geht.

Aber reiht sich himmlisch schön,
Nachtens oben Licht an Licht,
Taut’s wie Trost aus jenen Höh’n:
Heimatlose seid ihr nicht.

— Gustav Falke

29/07/2026

Today’s news hit me hard.

In 2008, I spent a few months working in Beijing. At the time there wasn’t much to do in your free time if you only spoke English - no theatre, no cinema - so we ended up buying (copied) DVDs from the weirdest little shops and watching two films almost every evening.

One of those films was *Once*.

It completely caught me by surprise. I fell in love with the story, the music, with the street musicians Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová and with their raw, passionate way of performing. It felt as if every song came from somewhere very deep. The soundtrack became the soundtrack of my time in China, and many of those songs have stayed with me ever since.

Whenever Glen played somewhere nearby, I tried to go. He never disappointed and played his guitar as if it was the last time. His concert with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra at Paradiso Amsterdam in Amsterdam still ranks among the most moving live performances I’ve ever experienced. I remember standing there with tears in my eyes.

His music found its way into so many chapters of my life. One of his songs was on our wedding playlist. Another is on my (still very preliminary) funeral playlist.

I’ve written before about parasocial grief: the grief we can feel for someone we’ve never actually ‘known’ personally. Today I’m feeling exactly that. We didn’t know each other, but his music has been part of my life for almost two decades. It accompanied me through difficult moments and beautiful ones alike.

*This Gift* has always been one of my favourite songs.

What a gift your music has been, Glen! 🖤

My heart goes out to everyone who loved him, especially his family. Thank you for leaving us with songs that will keep finding people, just as they once found me.

Image by Danny Clinch

26/07/2026

I just finished Ghost Stories by Siri Hustvedt, and I’m glad I read it in English. Her writing is beautiful, colorful, rich and has such a rhythm that it sometimes felt as if she was telling me her thoughts directly.

What I loved most is that the story isn’t linear. It’s a collage of journal entries, memories, essays, fragments of Paul Auster’s writing, letters, and reflections after his death. Somehow, that patchwork felt exactly right. Grief rarely arrives in neat chapters. It catches you in different moments, at different memories and often is a confusing mix.

One fact also became quite tangible: after decades together, you don’t just lose the person you love. You also lose the version of yourself that only existed with them. The shared memories, routines, the private language, your body La gauge with them closeby... suddenly you’re learning how to be someone new.

I also loved reading the letters Paul Auster wrote for his grandson Miles, what a precious gift for him. Knowing he never got to finish them made them all the more heartbreaking.

And then there were Auster’s “Notes from Beyond”: his wishes for his own funeral. Such a simple idea, such a great title and one I’d happily borrow.

22/07/2026

One thing I do when I’m on holiday? Visit the local cemetery. 😎

Today I wandered through the cemetery in Ars-en-Ré on the French Atlantic coast. There are so many really old, overgrown graves that I was wondering how long graves are usually here, how long concessions are.

Something else caught my eye. Instead of many fresh flowers, I noticed lots of small ceramic plaques and portraits with personal messages. I later read that these enamel and ceramic plaques are very common in France, but they also make perfect sense here. They can withstand the heat, the salty sea air and the wind much better than flowers.

I like how even something as universal as remembrance is shaped by its surroundings. The landscape doesn’t just influence how people live, it quietly influences how they remember, too.

15/04/2026

Via

Adres

Amsterdam

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