Transcript
Hi, I'm Dan Slone, and this is Bits & Peaces. It's a little different type of episode this time.
We're not at the Tiki Bar. We're going to walk through this presentation of photographs that go along with this, kind of, story. It's a story of celebrating the Day of the Dead, Día De Los Muertos, and how that has changed me over time.
Before COVID, we had a couple of Day of the Dead parties, each of them with 10 or so people. And we had Mexican music, we had margaritas and Mexican food, and there was a table for pictures of departed family and friends. There were candles burning, yellow confetti symbolizing marigolds, a little tequila. and a plate of salt. There were a few candies and some chocolate. There were a bunch of skeleton figures all around. Some of us wore masks. Some of us wore different pieces of clothing that had some of the references to the sugar skulls that everybody knows about with Day of the Dead. A friend brought a smudge stick and burned the sage and other herbs to purify the room and our minds. This was kind of an unusual way for any of us to begin a party.
Day of the Dead started as an Aztec ceremony refined over the years by generations of Mexicans. Catholic colonialists moved it to coincide with All Saints’ Day on November 1.
So, departed children are celebrated on that day, and then on what the Catholics call All Souls’ Day November 2, that's when the veil is thin enough that the dead can join the party. It's the Day of the Dead. The Catholics tried the same strategy with Samhain, the Celtic Festival where the spirit world became visible to humans, and the dead mingled with the living, and that became Halloween with its token offerings of harvested food - what we call candy.
At the parties, we asked people to tell stories of departed family members who they wanted to remember. Some of them hadn't lost any family members in their life because of either good fortune or because so many were gone before they were born. Some didn't want to recall their family members. Some were afraid that the experience would be awkward. I told stories of my Aunt Alice and Uncle Charles, and those were described in some of my earlier Vlogs. And in the end, everyone reported having a good time, but I seemed to be the only one who would want to do this each year, but it didn't matter because, the last two years, COVID has prevented these parties.
This experience of having the Day of the Dead celebration led me to think about several things. I thought about how fortunate I was to grow up with so many people who loved me so much. Christmases were full of family, love, and laughter. Going through school and my early profession, I had a team of cheerleaders who believed I could do anything or at least that's what they led me to believe. I had the good fortune to know two great-grandmothers; a great, great uncle; three grandparents; five great aunts and uncles; two aunts; a couple of cousins; and a cousin whose age made her and her husband aunt and uncle instead of cousin to avoid confusion.
The Day of the Dead made me think about the fact that life takes away these guaranteed cheerleaders over time. I thought about how I'd gone from many people knowing me all of my life to now, where only my father has known me all of my life, and I really hadn't thought about these things that way before. And you don't usually stop and think about, “Well, who's known me since the first moment?” There used to be a lot. I thought about the struggles and strengths of the people that surrounded me and, when you’re little, they all seem strong and invulnerable.
Some live the dream. The great, great uncle who launched business after business only to fail at each of them before becoming prosperous in the furniture and jewelry business. The aunt who went from poverty to comfort on union wages. The grandfather, son of a moonshiner, who became a beloved high school teacher and whose funeral had a line of people snaking down the street. But even they had their struggles. Some struggled more obviously, but I didn't see much of that until I was older.
One of the things that I've learned about the Day of the Dead is that it's also important for me to remember the living. I can balance the feeling of loss, of a diminished world. I remember what I've gained and that I'm surrounded by wonderful people who shower me with love and support: my wife of many decades, my daughter, my dad, my stepmother, my brother, my sister, my cousin and, as I think about it, a host of family and friends.
My mother died when I was 15. She married before finishing high school. She was smart, sassy and bored as a housewife. She'd become an alcoholic by the time I was 8, and I have few good memories of her. I had formerly forgiven her years ago when I became a parent and realized that the event of procreation had not delivered any deep wisdom to me, or superpowers to overcome human frailties.
The Day of the Dead parties, and thinking about whether to include her in the roster of family members I recited, made me question the narrative I'd created over time. I don't really have many memories of my childhood for better or worse. I envy those who can recall early happy times. Unless something is captured into a story, whether it's oral or written or even pictorial, I don't remember. All signs are that, when I was young, I was loved not just by the extended family, but at home as well. Maybe there was a time before the alcohol monster ruled that I just didn't remember.
Now, when I walk in the morning and sometimes go through the roster of the dead as part of my gratitude practice, I recite her name as well. That roster is long. It includes the names of friends that I've lost over the years. The Day of the Dead makes me think of them. I think of my good fortune in having them. I think of how hard it is for me to make real friends, and how I miss them when they leave. The roster also includes the names of mentors who have guided me over the years. This reminds me to mentor others.
On the Day of the Dead, I think about my younger daughter who died almost 8 years ago. The night after she died, when I was walking the dog, there was an owl hooting in the darkness in the woods in front of our house - this eerie “Hoooooo, hooooo.” The owl stayed there three, four, five nights in a row. There'd never been an owl in the seven or so years we’d lived here. There has never again been an owl in the almost eight years since.
Some native American traditions say that owls ferry souls to the afterlife. I think that the energy of the dead stays in the world when their body’s life is done. I know that the salts, metals, and chemicals of their bodies do. There are several old religions that thought the energy stayed for a while as well. Just as the physical body becomes part of the world, the energy does, too. For a time, it's still a coherent personality, but it's drawn into this beautiful world. The birth of a Canada Goose, the light of the Moon, a storm’s wind. They're all energy. And if we're too sad for too long, we make that energy stay near us, trying to comfort us instead of joining the other energies of the world. I think that's bad for our loved ones. I think that moving with those energies must be glorious. Like, some people believe that rejoining loved ones in heaven would be grand. I look forward to that reunion in the energy of the world.
Henri Bergson wrote of his belief that there is a force that flows through the world and animates it. The élan vital, the vital force. He thought of it sort of like the big bang where it explodes through the universe and the energy courses through rocks, and plants, and animals, and humans and everything. I think of it more like a circle, a regenerative process where the energy animates us, and then returns to the system, stamped with our personality and the world is forever changed.
So, I talk to my daughter sometimes at night. I wish her happiness. I tell her how much I love her. I talk to the rest of the dead as well. I don't wait for the Day of the Dead anymore. A year ago, an aunt died. Some of her ashes are near here. I talk to her. Her son died not long after her and some of his ashes are near here. I talk to him. I lost a dear friend a few days ago. I talked to him the other evening. They never talk back, but they communicate. Sometimes I ask them for help. I ask them to help the newly dead, help them find that energy, help them be less confused. I don't know that they really need any request from me. It's just something I hope helps. Sometimes, I tell them I miss them, but mostly, I just tell them that I love them.
Not long ago, I think it was just after I recorded the stories of some of our dogs, I decided to see if I could reach out to the many wonderful dog friends I've had over the years. I decided that, as I petted Biscuit, our golden retriever border collie mix, I would summon the names of the dogs and pet them all at the same time. It seemed efficient as well. I think it worked. Whether it did or not, it made me feel good and Biscuit seemed to enjoy it, but I did this standing in the middle of our seldom-traveled street at night, reciting the names of the dogs out loud. And this may explain why the neighbors have stopped speaking to me, and seemed to be swinging wide on the bike path in the mornings.
Most humans seek some way to make peace with death. For some, it's to anticipate a restful oblivion. Others believe another life lies beyond in their version of Heaven. Some anticipate more trips through the wheel of life before they can find escape. I believe that these fragile frameworks we erect to make peace with loss are important and that it is a terrible crime to try to take away the framework of another. I believe we should share the celebration of the Day of the Dead, not by folding it into Halloween, but by honoring the wonderful tradition that Mexico has brought us from the Aztecs.
Spread laughter and joy ya’ll. There's a shortage of that now.
Thanks! That's all for this episode of Bits & Peaces.
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