The Veil is Thin
The Veil is Thin
Holding reverence for the Day of the Dead
Last night, walking the streets of my neighborhood, witnessing the energy that trick or treating delivers with the shrieks from children at a nearby haunted house, I had an overwhelming sense of - this might be it. My husband must have felt it too because minutes later he said, “hey, this might be the last year we walk the streets like this. Next year she’ll be off with her friends and likely asking us to stay back at home.” My daughter is 10 and has one foot in childhood and the other in her future. On any given day, one foot is shaky and the other sturdy. There is uncertainty over whether there will be more tricks or more treats in the impending years. I’m not sure, either.
Then a few hours later, my 17-year-old came home from hanging at his friend’s house where they ate candy and watched football. He plopped on my bed and said, “Hey Mom, you know what I just realized driving home. This is my last Halloween. My last Halloween at home.” There was a tenderness to his voice that I’ve never heard before. And I felt a slight moment of horror strangle my heart. The idea that this sweet boy of mine will be living under a different roof this time next year is sitting on my chest a lot. He must have sensed the pull on my heart because he leaned in and gave me an unsolicited hug. A treat, for sure.
I decided that this year I want to dip into a new tradition and introduce it to my kids. Maybe they’ll carry it with them as their legs grow into their future.
On the backside of Halloween is Day of the Dead, also known as the Dia de los Muertos1. This three-day Aztec celebration originated in southern Mexico, and it is an honoring of departed family members, friends and even pets. A time to bow in reverence to our ancestors who are no longer physically here and who are always here in spirit.
Celebrated on the 2nd of November every year, many Christian traditions steep in this kind of remembrance, too. All Soul’s Day is a day to deeply call to mind friends and loved ones who have left for their heavenly abode. Pulling up the roots of this tradition dates back to the ancient Pagan Festival of the Dead. Driving the holiday was the belief that the souls of the dead would return for a meal with the family. Candles were placed in the windows of homes to guide souls back home and another place was set at the table.
I am so intrigued by all of this. I recall a yoga class I attended on November 2nd, a few years back, where our instructor encouraged all of us to bring in a picture of a beloved departed and before we placed our feet on our mats, we placed our collective pictures on an altar at the top of the studio. So that each time we rose up in a heart opening pose, our hearts were aiming directly at our ancestors. So many tears fell during that class. The energy of spirit was palpable.
In preparation for this weekend, this year’s All Soul’s Day, I have set up an altar that has significant meaning to me. I chose a tripod lamp that I have had for about 20 years. I can’t part with it. My aunt Pat gifted it to me as a housewarming gift for one of my apartments I was furnishing back in my 20s.
Every family has that person in it who feels like the heartbeat of the family. The one who pulsates warmth and oxygenates a room just by stepping into it. That was my aunt Pat. She generated love like no other. Cancer took her from us right before Thanksgiving in 2005. And our feasts and family gatherings have never been the same since. Pat was a fantastic cook, and she could French braid hair like no other. Both of those traits skipped over me, but I feel she gave me a gift like no other. My son Nate was born on her birthday - 7 weeks earlier than his projected due date. My firstborn was delivered 19 months after Pat departed. Nate has her warmth. Her gentle nature. There isn’t a birthday of his that goes by where I don’t look up and tell Pat how much I love her. And how much I thank her for looking over all of us.
Grieving a loved one in November has an extra dose of pain attached to it. The empty chair at the Thanksgiving table never gets easier, it just gets different. You hold the grief differently. You never quite put it down. Nor should you.
My daughter was born in November and has since lightened up the month for me. This year is her golden birthday (yes, apparently that is a thing). Caroline turns 11 on 11/11 this year.
And just like Nate, I believe Caroline was gifted to us from some special angels above. She was born 10 years to the day after her infant cousin got her wings. One infant sent into God’s arms, the other into mine. Caroline came home from the hospital wrapped in her cousin Ava’s blanket and her middle name is in memory of the life we lost that day - a decade before.
November 11th also happens to be Veteran’s Day. Another nod from the angels. When I was 3 months pregnant with Caroline, my father-in-law Arthur suffered a heart attack, and he departed. He was the first person my husband shared the news with when we found out we were pregnant. Arthur died 2 days after Father’s Day in 2013. He was over the moon excited about welcoming another grandchild. He was also a proud Marine who served and sacrificed in the Vietnam war. To welcome his granddaughter into the world on Veteran’s Day, a day he revered, felt divinely right.
The circle of life rings true. One life in physical form leaves and another is birthed. We lose love. We get love. We cry. We rejoice. Love and sorrow hold hands forever. They are companions, holding each other up in a continuous circle.
Pat’s hands hold Nathan’s, Arthur and Ava’s hands hold Caroline’s. And we hold all of them in our hearts daily. It’s how the human spirit beats.
In the gorgeous book The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller, he proposes the idea of an apprenticeship with sorrow. He writes:
We can recover a faith in grief that recognizes that grief is not here to take us hostage, but instead to reshape us in some fundamental way.
I have found that when I let my grief get closer to me, it is life giving. There is vitality in those tears. There is a curvature of the mouth that creeps in. Sweet remembrance.
Just this morning, before putting the finishing touches on this essay I read
’s gorgeous words reminding us Why We Need Halloween. With tears brimming and a smile widening, I nodded along. She writes about some time she will spend in front of her altar, candle lit, with a reverent heart:This is the counterpoint to the lurid Halloween that we buy from supermarket shelves, a bass note in a jangling day. We can hold both, I think: the silliness and the sombre. One is the gateway to the other; one is a gateway out. I couldn’t tell you which is which. The way that levity has overtaken Halloween is its own kind of truth. In an age where death has been ejected from the everyday, our children have found their own, fumbling way to befriend it.
We can hold both. We can feel youthful and silly. We can be sombre and sad. Neither is tricking us. Both belong.
And so, I will step into November welcoming my grief, not just to feel sad. Not to weep. Although, that may happen. But more so, to celebrate. To celebrate the deep love I was so fortunate to feel. To celebrate the many ways ancestral spirit continues to guide. To honor impermanence.
Here is the start of my altar. I will build on it as the weekend unfolds. It’s the lamp from my aunt Pat. With photos of my dad and my husband’s dad. John and Arthur. Pa and Papa. And my family will light a candle for them this weekend and welcome them at our table. Along with all our beloved who departed. All who might visit a bit closer this weekend. While the veil is thin.
YOUR TURN:
~Who do you place on the altar in your heart? Drop some names in the comments below. Who are your beloveds that departed? Throughout the weekend I will make a list and place it on my altar. A communal offering to honor those who left but who really are still here with us.
~If you are more private but still want to share, please know that I always welcome private messages and emails. I love hearing from others who feel their way through the world like this.
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BEFORE I GO:
In keeping myself accountable, what you just read was essay #16 of 24 as part of the Sparkle on Substack Essay Club where you can find this cute badge:
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This holiday is huge in my neighborhood, and I was just asking someone about all the different things you’re supposed to put on your altar. I love this.
This was a beautiful read, Allison.
Thank you for sharing your loved ones with us. I loved seeing your altar and reading your process with it. I keep a toonie (a Canadian $2 coin) on my altar in remembrance of my late Great Grandma who used to give us a toonie and a fruit roll-up every time we visited when she was living. I've lost a few people since then, and this piece has inspired me to go print out some photos and breathe new life into my altar. Thank you!