When the Ashes Fell

Today is February 18th.
Ash Wednesday.

My Last Ash Wednesday involved Tom and Jerry on bald heads. If you missed that confession, you can find it here.

This year feels different.

If you grew up Catholic, you already know the choreography.

You go to church.
You kneel.
The priest dips his thumb into the ashes.
He presses a cross on your forehead.
You walk out marked, visibly Catholic for the day.

That is how I understood it.

Even in Lisbon, where the ashes are often placed gently near the hairline instead of boldly stamped across the forehead, there is still a visible mark. A trace. Something definite.

So I thought I knew what to expect.

At Igreja de São Domingos, I joined the line and waited. The priest was elderly. His voice carried through the small microphone curved around his ear. It trembled slightly, not with weakness but with weight. He had blessed the ashes. I watched carefully to see if he would mix them into paste.

He did not.

Being short in church sharpens your observation skills. I studied the faces of those returning to their seats. No bold crosses. No thick smudges. Nothing dramatic.

What exactly was Father doing?

Two people before me, I finally saw it clearly. He raised his hand with surprising flair, like someone sprinkling generous spice into a pot of soup, and traced the sign of the cross as he released the ashes.

Not pressed.

Released.

Sprinkled.

Of course, even in that solemn moment, humanity was present. Some people tilted their heads strategically, as though aiming for a neat distribution. We are dust, yes, but dust that still wants to look fine.

When my turn came, I bent my head, already certain this was not business as usual. No firm thumb. No defined cross. No visible mark.

Just particles. Light as breath.

And then the words in Portuguese:

“Lembra-te que és pó e ao pó hás de voltar.”
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

For a moment, the church disappeared.

I did not hear poetry. I saw endings.

I saw wardrobes emptied. Degrees framed and later forgotten. Emails archived. Group chats silent. Houses sold. Names spoken less and less until they become stories that begin with, “I once knew someone who…”

We hustle.
We build.
We compare.
We argue online with people we will never meet.
We rehearse conversations in our heads at 2 a.m.
We hold grudges like heirlooms.
We exhaust ourselves chasing security that was never guaranteed.

And in the end?

Dust.

Not gold.
Not platinum.
Not upgraded matter.

Dust.

Solomon said it without mincing words. Vanity upon vanity, all is vanity.

Standing there, with ashes falling lightly over my hair, I understood something I cannot fully articulate. None of us will become refined metal at death. No one upgrades into something shinier.

Dust is not a metaphor. It is our destination.

And yet we live as though permanence is negotiable.

Then I lifted my head.

At Igreja de São Domingos, the air itself feels older. The walls are darkened and uneven. Stone lies exposed where fire once stripped everything back. Paint surrendered long ago. The church has burned. It has been rebuilt. It has survived earthquakes. Its ceiling once fell. Flames once consumed what stood there. Instead of restoring it to flawless perfection, the scars remain visible.

Even stone does not escape time.

And suddenly my mind went further.

I imagined not dramatic scenes of people rising into the sky, but something quieter. Slower. Bodies returning to earth without spectacle. Even those carefully preserved. Even those buried in polished caskets. Even those embalmed and sealed away.

Embalmed? Time still wins.
Wrapped in silk? Time still wins.
Sealed in marble? Time still wins.

Flesh yields. Bone softens. Fabric decays. Wood rots. Marble fractures. Gold may endure, but it cannot keep life inside it.

Everything eventually loosens its hold.

Particles.

Drifting.

Returning.

And it is not only the body that dissolves. Titles fade. Ownership changes hands. Businesses are renamed. Social media profiles become memorials, then inactive, then inaccessible. Even memory erodes.

We build as though we are staying. We live in a world designed for leaving.

But beneath the humour and beneath the reflection, something settled in me. I realised how many of my anxieties this week would not survive one strong wind. The things I replay. The things I defend. The invisible competitions I run in my mind. None of them would matter once the particles scatter.

This year, everyone is talking about the “3-1-1” formula for Lent. Three things to give up, one thing to take up, one thing to avoid. We have turned Lent into a strategic plan.

But as the ashes settled over me, I wondered whether Lent is less about optimisation and more about loosening our grip.

Because whether we fast perfectly or forget by Day Four, whether we complete our spiritual checklist or abandon it midway, one day the checklist ends.

We return.

To dust.

This time it wasn’t a stamp on my forehead.

It was a release over my soul.

If we are dust, then pride is heavy.
If we are dust, then grudges are unnecessary luggage.
If we are dust, then love becomes urgent.
If we are dust, then forgiveness cannot wait.

If I am dust, then what I choose to love is the only thing that will remain.

I left Igreja de São Domingos with ashes no one could really see.

But I felt them.

Dear Jesus, since I am dust anyway, teach me to live lightly. Teach me to love quickly. Teach me not to take temporary things so seriously. And when my own particles are finally released into the wind, let them carry the memory of a life that loved You well.

Yours, passing through,