With Autumn upon us, one recalls life and death. With today being Halloween – All Hallow’s Eve – Samhain – the line between the living and dead blows thin. We were in Colorado last week to put to rest the remains of my oldest brother, who passed away last April. He had a hard life after he left home, so he died relatively young. These leaves are part of the oak grove where we laid his ashes. From here, he can see across the plateau to the snow-covered mountains miles away. Be at peace, brother.
The Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, is a Mexican tradition from the more southerly parts of the country. Such days are celebrated in various forms throughout the world. As populations migrate, so do their holidays, and this holiday is much better than Halloween!
Yesterday, there was Dia de los Muertos in a local cemetery. There were altars for lost ones, with photos and memorabilia and objects they liked; remembrances, some poignant, some funny; there were marigolds everywhere; and there were booths, dancing, cultural events and more.
The cemetery itself is new; there are no fancy headstones and rusting gates. Tucked against a mountain with vistas of the plain below, it is a rather pleasant place to come. Ranchland spreads out to the city and hills beyond. Last night’s remaining rain clouds filled the sky. Altogether, it was a beautiful day, for the living or the dead.
A couple of friends and I got to the cemetery around 11 in the morning. It wasn’t crowded, but still had enough people to make it busy. For me, the most interesting subjects to photograph were the people, especially the kids. Click on a picture below to start a slide show.
Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
—Rabindranath Tagore
Today I was marveling about how incredibly wonderful and complicated the human body is, and that is simply because I inhabit one. Giraffes and phytoplankton are just as complicated, and as interesting. And as delicate and mysterious.
I’ve been thinking about this because the other day I stepped on a spider, deliberately, with murder as my intention. I missed it, and it limped around in circles until I put it out of its misery. I felt – and it was – awful and evil. With this realization came an appreciation for the Dalai Lama when he had the worms sifted out of the dirt when he built his movie theatre (if I recall the movie Seven Years in Tibet correctly).
So, yes, life is sacred. Who am I to harm the innocent? And what right do individuals have to harm others because of disagreements on what is god, or what god thinks a woman should or should not wear or do?
However, with all the raving about the sanctity of life, of no abortion being justifiable, that the life of the unborn has more value than the living mother, I must disagree. Death is as sacred as life. To keep people alive for years on machines, ever hopeful, seems to be cruel and unusual punishment to me, not just to the ones attached to the machine, but to those who will not, cannot, or are afraid to let go. Presidential sanctions to mandate life of one individual is an incredible invasion of privacy. To keep people alive who will never survive without a machine goes beyond my understanding. We are oftentimes kinder to animals than to humans – euthanasia gives release from pain, surcease of sorrow.
Life is sacred, but so is death; to hide from its inevitability is to avoid life in all its complexity, pain, and beauty.
Ink, Yarn & Beer 