What a building taught me about saying goodbye — and the question every funeral home should ask

During my years studying architecture, I came to realize something fundamental: what moves us about a building is not just the visual impact of its lines and colors. It is the way space itself—its proportions, its light, its tactility—shapes our emotions and our sense of being. Designing a space is a complex, deeply personal act, because space does more than contain life; it guides feeling, behavior, and memory.

Part 1: The Lesson of the Corridor

I have visited many of Frank Lloyd Wright’s works, and one detail has stayed with me ever since. Perhaps because of his own height, and undoubtedly influenced by Japanese architecture, Wright’s Prairie-style homes appear low and expansive from the outside. But inside, he deliberately compressed the corridors. He believed that lower ceilings in passageways encouraged people to move through them more quickly, while raising the ceiling height in living rooms and bedrooms invited people to slow down, to stay, to feel at home.

That is the quiet power of space. It doesn’t just contain us. It guides us. It tells us where to hurry and where to linger. And I would later learn that this power extends far beyond architecture — it shapes how we say goodbye.

Part 2: The Sensory Spaces of Farewell

I am Chinese. To be honest, I do not hold a defined religious faith. But I grew up immersed in the atmospheres of Buddhism and Daoism. Across East Asia, these two traditions have exerted a profound influence — not only on belief, but on the sensory experience of farewell.

Step into a Buddhist or Daoist temple during a funeral rite, and you enter a space defined not by silence, but by sound and smell. The rhythmic chanting of sutras fills the hall — low, resonant, repetitive. It is a sound that doesn’t demand your attention but gently pulls you into a shared emotional state. The air is thick with the scent of burning incense, drifting through the open, unpartitioned hall. These sensory layers — the voice, the smoke, the warmth of the flame — create an atmosphere of inwardness and collective mourning.

The space itself is designed to accommodate this. Temple halls are large, open, flexible. They are not divided into small rooms because the ritual demands movement and multiplicity: chanting here, burning offerings there, family members moving between stations. This is a dynamic space, alive with sensory input.

Now contrast this with the spaces I encountered while living in North America for pet farewells.

During my years in San Francisco, I lived in Daly City. Not far from my apartment, there were cemeteries. Many times, I looked out my window and watched a funeral procession pass slowly by. The black cars moved in quiet order. There was no wailing, no music. Only a composed solemnity.

I also once visited a church in Los Angeles. In its basement was a columbarium — a space dedicated to housing the ashes of those who had contributed to the church. Rows of urns sat in quiet display. The light was soft. There was no scent of incense in the air, only the cool, clean stillness of stone.

The Christian funeral space, particularly in the Protestant tradition, is defined not by sound and smell, but by light and silence. The high vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows are designed to draw the eye — and the spirit — upward. Light filters through colored glass, creating an atmosphere of sacred stillness. The largeness of the space is meant to hold reflection, not ritual motion.

Two cultures. Two sensory languages. One finds meaning in the voice and the incense. The other finds meaning in the light and the quiet.

Part 3: How Sensory Experience Shapes Ritual Behavior

What fascinates me is how these sensory experiences seep into the way people handle their loved ones’ remains.

In Chinese tradition, after a cremation, there is a ritual called “picking up the bones.” Larger bone fragments remain within the ashes, and it is the closest family members who personally perform this task — using chopsticks or gloved hands to gently pick up each fragment, place it into a soft ash pouch, and then nestle the pouch inside an urn.

This is a profoundly tactile act. When you hold that ash pouch, the texture matters. Velvet or cotton-linen blend feels soft and warm against the skin. That material warmth counters the coldness of death itself. It is comfort delivered through touch. The ash pouch is not merely a bag — it is a small, soft, intimate space. The urn that follows is a second layer of spatial enclosure, more permanent, more architectural. Together, they form a sequence of nested spaces: from the vast temple hall to the private ritual room to the small pouch to the carefully chosen vessel.

In North American tradition, I observed a different approach. It is rare to see anyone touch the body or the ashes. Instead, emotion is projected onto a small memorial card or a framed photograph. The card bears the person’s name, the dates of their life, and a verse of scripture. It is not meant to be touched. It is meant to be read and remembered. This is comfort delivered through sight and through words.

Here, the final physical space takes a different form. The metal urn — often stainless steel or brass — is cool, sealed, and dignified. It is designed not to be touched frequently, but to be looked at, to sit quietly on a shelf or mantle. It is a visual marker of memory, not a tactile one.

Part 4: The Open Question — Designing the Final Physical Space

Here is what I’ve come to understand: every culture, in its farewell rituals, travels a different sensory path. East Asian farewells move through sound, smell, and touch. North American farewells move through light, silence, and sight. The rituals look different. The behaviors look different. The products look different.

But they arrive at the same destination.

Whether it is a ceramic urn placed on a Buddhist altar, a wooden casket buried in the earth, or a metal urn sitting on a living room shelf — the final destination is a physical space. A small vessel. A container that holds not just ashes, but memory, identity, and love.

This is where my architectural training meets my work at heavbo. I used to design spaces for the living. Now, I help curate spaces for the departed — and for those who remain.

And this brings me to a question I cannot answer alone. It is an open question, and I invite every funeral professional reading this to consider it with me:

How should we design this final physical space?

How do we design a vessel that honors the tactile warmth of a Chinese ash pouch, while also respecting the visual dignity of a North American metal urn? Can we create products that bridge sensory traditions — a ceramic urn with a texture that begs to be touched, a memorial card with a seed embedded in it that grows into something living? How do we pack the vastness of a temple hall and the stillness of a church nave into a single, small object?

There is no single answer. But perhaps the act of asking the question is itself the beginning of better design — and better care.

At heavbo, we don’t presume to have solved this. But we’ve made it our work to keep asking. We curate products that honor multiple sensory traditions — soft ash pouches, hand-glazed ceramic urns, tactile wooden caskets, and visual memorial frames. We build scene-based kits that allow funeral homes to serve families from different cultural backgrounds with authenticity.

We cannot offer a fully bespoke solution for every scenario. But we can keep asking the question. And we can keep designing, curating, and delivering products that try to answer it — one vessel at a time.

The best farewell is never the most elaborate one. It is the one that says goodbye in a space that feels true. Whether that space is a grand hall, a quiet room, or a small urn held in two hands — what matters is that it feels like home.

What is the difference between East Asian and North American pet funeral traditions?
East Asian traditions (influenced by Buddhism and Daoism) are sensory-rich, emphasizing sound (chanting), smell (incense), and touch (bone-gathering). North American traditions (influenced by Christianity) emphasize sight (photos, stained glass) and silence, with minimal physical contact with remains.

Why is the “bone picking” ritual important in Chinese culture?
After cremation, family members personally pick up remaining bone fragments and place them into a soft ash pouch before sealing them in an urn. This tactile act is considered the ultimate escort of a loved one, delivering comfort through touch.

What materials are preferred for pet urns in different cultures?
Chinese families often prefer wooden urns, Japanese families prefer ceramic urns, and North American families tend to favor metal urns (stainless steel or brass). Each material reflects different cultural values around permanence, tactility, and display.

How can funeral homes serve culturally diverse families?
By offering products that honor different sensory traditions — such as soft ash pouches, ceramic urns, metal urns, and memorial photo frames — and by curating scene-based kits tailored to specific cultural practices.

Where can funeral homes source culturally diverse pet memorial products?
heavbo offers thoughtfully curated, scene-based kits for funeral homes serving diverse communities. From traditional East Asian sets to classic North American sets, we help you honor every family’s unique farewell tradition.