This is the day that normally seems to begin my downward spiral into my personal abyss of profound sadness each year. Halloween is over, my favorite "hallowed-day" of the year. This leaves me with my darling daughter's birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Getting to Christmas is the hardest part for me, as my father died one week before Christmas, eight years ago (gasp) this year. Once I get to Christmas Eve, singing the carols and rejoicing in Christ's Birth, I am fine again for another year.
I prepared a mini-lesson on El día de los muertos, the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead, celebrated not only one day but in reality throughout the month of November. It was interesting in reflecting on this celebration with my student this morning (no--wait, yesterday morning. Damn this insomnia screws with my internal time settings) and drawing comparisons to the Shinto tradition of maintaining the shrine to one's antepasados with ofrendas maintained daily: the rice, the sake, the photos, the embracing of this person who contributed so much to the lives of those still living under that roof. (I need to get back to my Nakanojo furusato blog!) Making this person a part of our daily lives. Creating a space. Paying attention. Learning from the past and creating a present from this past. The Mexican holiday is cast in much the same light, a mixture of the aztec traditions and Catholic belief; indeed, no ofrenda is complete without a cross, mole, often tequila and the cempazuchitl, the yellow marigold believed to be the flower of death (much like the chrysanthemum in Japan). El día de los muertos is a perfect illustration of the Catholic church's need to compromise with the indigenous people of the Americas in post-Conquest times so as to gain followers; an "indigenous Catholicism", in a way. Rooted deeply in the traditions native to the peoples, one traveling throughout Latin America, and even in various parts of the United States, will see a very a Roman Catholicism that is very distinct from that which is seen in Rome, filled with idolatry and accepted sacrifice and celebrations that stem from Inca, Maya, Aztec and even, as illustrated below, Afro-creole and a wide host of other external influences.
Interestingly, I also learned today--no, sorry, yesterday--that the Jewish faith does not look at death in the same way. Instead, Jewish followers turn down the photos of their deceased loved ones for a mourning period of a year. There is no open-casket velorio and the burial occurs one day after the death. Mirrors are turned away or avoided so as not to witness our suffering due to the loss...or perhaps due to the not wanting to see the memory of the antepasado still alive in our eyes, our facial details, our expressions. I am not well-versed enough in that tradition to know or to expertly present, but the comparisons and the contrasts deeply fascinate me and create in me a deep desire to learn more.
I live next to a cemetery now. I grew up across the street from a cemetery in Oregon. I have always found peace in death around me and could respect the idea of embracing the life of the one who has left us behind. My life was turned upside down with my father's death and yet I embraced him. My choice in profession is due to having a marvelous, patient public school teacher for a father, and I believe his spirit lives on in me, in allowing me to at least strive be the best teacher I can be, both in and out of the classroom. Each year I have so longed for my mourning to be different, feeling by this point that I have reached the acceptance of his death and the readiness to move on, but a deep emptiness remains in my soul. Perhaps the darkness of the year and the pointless commercialism of the season drags my spirit down as instead, each year presents me with a battle. I want to move on and not feel so sad...but I can't. There are other (rather huge) reasons as well, which I suppose I will write about, now that I seem to have found a bit of relief in writing, come December. I don't want to start to dwell too early.
Today, the mantra in my mind will run, over and over, for my dear father, for the innocence lost, for all the loss I have had to endure,
St. Michael, pray for us...
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It is interesting to see how everyone else deals with death. My father has been gone 19 years now. And the holiday is Mother's Day. He died the day after and my grandmother died the day of.
ResponderEliminarToday is a new day. Tomorrow is another.....
My father died when I was 15 on the Sunday of an October Public Holiday weekend for us over here.
ResponderEliminarIt's been 39 years ... and he was younger than I am now when he died ... and yet I still have moments when I cry at the loss of a dear father, so young (both him and me). I don't care what the experts may say - you never actually get over such a huge loss.
Dear Mapi,I symapthise, empathise and understand completely.