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It was recently Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). I can’t really remember when I first became associated with this festival, but I do remember that it had an immediate impact on me. Its message is so different in some ways to Halloween, which is all about spookiness and has been associated with fear and danger over the years.
Originally a Christian festival to celebrate Allhallowtide, Halloween was ‘All Hallows Eve’, an observance in the liturgical year dedicated to remembering the dead, including saints, martyrs, and the faithful departed. But, over the years, it’s lost its meaning. It’s become associated with a spectrum of two extremes; horror at one end and small children in fancy dress trick or treating with parents at the other.
I confess, I look forward to the public displays on Halloween and love walking the dogs around the dark streets in the early evening to enjoy them and soak up the atmosphere. Doorsteps decorated with witches’ broomsticks, carved pumpkins, skeletons, and all manner of spooky things call out to me because I love the imagination and creativity involved. I love the idea that people go to so much trouble and many of the displays are really very beautiful.
There’s something about the twinkle of candles in the darkness, the smell of petrichor and woodsmoke hanging like grey cobwebs in the air, and the faces of carved pumpkins glowing out into the darkness that calls to me. I also applaud the idea that, thankfully, things have changed so that doors are not knocked on unless houses display that they are taking part, meaning that there’s now a courtesy involved that didn’t exist before. I used to have to hide upstairs in darkness, praying that my door wouldn’t be knocked and cause the dogs to kick off every five minutes.
Though, this reminds me that the first year I moved here I became (much to my embarrassment) a crime statistic! I was out on Halloween to avoid the door knocking and drove home at around nine pm. As I was getting out of my car, I vaguely noticed a car, followed by a police car coming down my road. As the first car drove past me, something hard hit me on the back of the head, making me yell out. Rubbing the back of my head, the police car stopped and both officers got out. One said; “What just happened?”
As he took out his notebook and began to write, I explained that I’d been struck on the back of the head by something. His next question was; “Do you know what with?” Unfortunately, I did. Looking down on the ground beside me I said sheepishly; “A pork pie!” “What?” said the officer. Pointing at the offending object nestled there innocently on the road beside me, I repeated quietly; “I think it was a pork pie.”
Looking at the pork pie, they immediately lost interest, telling me to report it at the police station the next day. They climbed back into their car and drove off. I’ve never been so embarrassed but have giggled about it many times since.
Dia de los Muertos is a celebration of and a calling to loved ones now departed to welcome them back. It’s a time to say hello and remind them that they were loved, inviting them for a few short hours to be part of our lives again. On one evening of the year, it’s a time to make food and greet family to celebrate their presence, love, and influence – it’s a joining together from both sides of the divide.
What I think I love most about it is that it’s fully accepted that as well as our human friends departed, it’s completely acceptable to welcome back the spirits of our beloved furry companions. Dogs, cats, rabbits, birds, all and everything are respected and welcomed into the festival.
Last night, I created a little shrine on the windowsill facing out. I placed a lamp, a small photograph of my beloved dogs, Arthur and Ila, in a silver frame, and, beside it, four gravy bones. At bedtime, I lit the candle and took my two Dachshunds out into the garden for a last pee. Sitting in the darkness under the stars (which were beautiful and twinkly), I invited both pups onto my lap, and looking at the candle through the window, I told Willow and Bear all about Arthur and Ila.
It was the first time I’d been able to talk about them out loud without crying. I explained who they were and what they’d meant to me. They both sat quietly and listened with interest and respect. It was a precious moment for all of us.
I think I’ve said before that I sleep very badly, waking every two hours, some nights every hour. Though I’ve never been a great sleeper and only ever had four to five hours a night throughout my working life, after Ila’s vestibular attack and Arthur’s dementia, I got into the habit of waking myself up constantly to check on them. Even though they passed four months ago now, I still haven’t been able to sleep through, or prevent the nightmares which constantly wake me. But, last night, after reading for half an hour and settling down, unbelievably I slept right the way through from about 11 pm to seven am this morning. Unheard of!
When Arthur and Ila used to sleep in the bedroom with me (which they did their whole lives until they became ill), they slept on the bed, never in it. That said, when I was ill with a fever or with an arthritic attack (where my teeth chatter with cold at the same time as my joints being hot, stiff, painful, and swollen), Arthur would, completely unbidden, crawl in under the covers and spoon me. He’d nip at Ila and get her up to do the same so that I was wedged between them, sharing their body heat.
I can’t explain in words the comfort or sense of safety they gave me, knowing that the morning would come and I’d be better. Last night I dreamt that they were spooning me, snuggling up under the covers to hold me safe. I woke to find my little Bear in my arms and Willow glued to my back, her head over my shoulder.
I’m not religious at all, but that said; “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest forever in peace.”
In memory of Arthur and Ila
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