November 2. The midpoint between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel the way the air has changed over the last few days? It’s sleek as a seal skin. The wind tumbles chimes and rattles leaves. Clouds burnish the sky. Dawn is dry and brittle in the east. Morning languishes longer. Night commences sooner.
The wind.
Can you feel it?
I dare you to walk outside right now, wherever you are and feel it.
I have a heart full of worry. I want to distract myself with something innocent that will feel good right now. What will suffice? A deep breath. A glance at the photo of a sweet girl I knew once upon a time, long ago.
Another deep breath. I remind myself to surrender and trust.
Surrender. Trust.
I bring it back. I reach for what I love.
I love these dark mornings. They come upon us so subtly. The long days of Summer rush into the early days of Autumn with the bustle of back to school bringing a feeling of hurry up and finish the fun so we can get down to business.
Even those early school days, only two months past, seem as distant as Independence Day. Days tumble into weeks, tangle into months, coil into days tangle into weeks, coiling into months, spiraling into seasons. A season passes and then another.
The light-filled hours are saturated with deeds and doing, exploits and executions. Filled to the brim. Night comes late and leaves early, leaving little opportunity for rest, as though the light requires us to accomplish, achieve, and act.
The last days of Summer, as school starts, are a bustle of acquainting and habituating ourselves to new customs, times, and people. Even if you don’t have children you can feel the surrounding energy change. People anticipate the spirit of Autumn.
Here, now, these days are the mid-point, the cross-quarter, between the Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice.
These are holy days. The Catholic Church celebrates them as All Hallows Tide, a series of days intended to honor saints, and pray and remember departed souls who have yet to reach Heaven. Hallow comes from the Old English word that means saints. We begin to honor the saints on Halloween. November 1 is All Saints Day, where we revere a group of people who are set apart and dedicated their lives to some purpose.
Saints were not perfect people. We strive for some imaginary form of impossible perfection. But the trying and desire to improve and be more holy is what calls us to the path of sainthood. Living and breathing love, peace, joy, humility, obedience, trust, goodness, charity, compassion, and honor. These are the virtues of saints. Why not live them? Each of us increasing that cause every day would bring us and this planet closer to heaven on earth.
And here we are, November 2, All Souls Day. In Mexico, we commemorate family and friends who have died. We believe we support them on their soul’s journey. We acknowledge life and death, knowing that death is part of the cycle.
We agree, life on Earth, with it’s ups and downs, struggles and disappointments, it’s celebrations and fun, is a pretty cool place. But there has got to be more, right? The First Law of Thermodynamics tells us energy cannot be destroyed; it can only be transferred or changed from one form to another. These beautiful souls rested here with us for a short time. Now they rest somewhere else. We believe these souls are in a better place. We remember them. We celebrate.
They live on in the stories. Stories can only be gathered with time and through love.
Once a year we gather formally to recount, collect, and share and during this time, the spirit and vigor of our exquisite beloved, burn bright as the candles we light.
I carved the pumpkins and filled them with candles. I string lights along my porch. I fill luminaries with sand and candles. I make sugar skulls. I cut papel picado. I place the flowers. I build the altar. I frame the photos.
I remember.
I remember this existence, and my heart full of worry is temporary.
I remember to reach for a better feeling thought. A thought of joy, or light, or friendship.
I remember to trust and surrender that everything is working out for the best.
I remember the soul and spirit that animated my beloved.
How Melissa was tall and a force, her blue eyes pierced and penetrated. There was no messing with her; she wasn’t A Boss, she was The Boss. She had a specific way that she wanted things to be. She executed with confidence. She had wild curly hair and the best laugh. She was the oldest sister of four and a mother of five. I remember her wedding to Ruben and seeing the pure joy of my Tio Luis. The Tambor blasted the hills in Colonia Kennedy all afternoon and evening, the food and drinks, the people, and their despedida as they left for their honeymoon, and our joy as they left to start their new life. I marveled, could I ever be that bold, that elegant, that self-possessed, that loved?
How Gaby had a tinkling laugh, her soft sweetness, and bright smile, and how she and her adored husband called each other Chickie-Baby. They stayed at our home and we toured them around San Diego. How warm and friendly she was to Robin and how she delighted in traveling and seeing new things. I remember how captivated she was by our dog, how much she wanted children. I remember how valiantly she won her first bout with cancer and how changed she was after – more at peace, more present, more true. Her enchantment in meeting Sylvie and Inez and how surprising and quick was her death.
I remember Crissy. How my parents served as mid-wives to bring her to her family. I knew she was as close to me as a sister, our relationship coiled together through circumstance. I remember long beach days, the quilt my mother made for her, and playing on the ladder of her bunk bed. I remember her curious nature and how her lips moved across her teeth when she laughed. I remember her thick curly hair with a mind of its own and her bright eyes. I remember the shock of her murder.
My grandmothers.
One, I never knew, long dead by the time I was born. She is a collection of stories suspired by the tellers with ache. Her presence still mourned 58 years hence. She lives as a photograph, braced in time, her posture, erect, her hair, marcelled, the watch, her hands, the ring blur in her lap, she is regal, serene, and composed. Those light eyes cleave you to your essence.
One I saw irregularly, but when I did I had the honor of sleeping in the bed with her. The way she breathed through her nose and the way she smelled of soap. She could be jolly and had short, white curly hair and blue eyes that danced. She made me coffee, thick with sugar and milk. She lived with my aunt in a cinder block house, glacial in the winter with space heaters the did nothing more than whine. She stacked innumerable, thick blankets atop me at night to keep me warm. I couldn’t move from their weight and still, I shivered. Her tortillas were small, tasted of smoke, and wrapped in hand-embroidered, lace-edged cloth. She kvetched and complained. We shared a name. She was mine.
My grandfathers.
One smooth and slick, with thick black hair, oiled into luxury. He smelled of mystery and dark, of things I could not name. He had a charming, seductive way about him, a bit rough and aloof, a huge laugh. Easy. Big. Loose. I can see him in shadowed profile, sitting on a chair, in a solitary, dark room, an open door behind him, girdling him in light.
One, old and stiff. He had a long, hooked nose, jiggly jowls, and sad eyes. His skin was polished, the color of cigars. His hands were a constellation of age spots, his almond-shaped nails, trim and neat. He smelled of smoke and wool. He was formal in demeanor and dress, favoring button-down shirts and ties and suit pants. He seemed unapproachable and rough. I assume he loved me though I felt like a bother. I was obliged to greet him. I can’t remember: did his house have arches leading from one room to another? Did he smile?
So many more. Tio Alfonso’s greeting. Drinking an aperitif with my Tio Gustavo. Tio Pepe Pancho’s voluminous facial hair. The way my Tia Bere breathed. Alejandro’s joy when he played drums. Aunts and Uncles and Cousins. Friends and their parents and loved ones.
We remember.
And it’s more than that.
How will you be remembered?
When they tell your story when they build the altar when they gather to speak your name, what will they say? How will they speak of your sainthood? To what reverent purpose were you consecrated?
With that thought, my worried heart settles. All will be done in time. The putting away of the inventory, the organizing of the crafts, the folding of the laundry, the decorating of the altar, the sweeping of the floor, the running of the race is all, in fact, happening right now and is already done.
These holy and darker days allow for more internal contemplation, more rest. In this darkness it can be easier to see; to what reverent purpose am I consecrated?
I rest, secure in the knowledge that it is done. The process flows. I’m where I need to be. No buildings will fall, no people will perish because of my list. My soul ascends to peace on this rowdy November wind.
But that’s not what I love about these darker days. Beyond the opportunity for greater rest that these days encourage, I love that these days provide opportunities to create more light; for us to make our own light.
To celebrate light and love as we remember.