Day of the Dead

November 1^st Day of the Dead. 

My ancestors are waiting at the gate, dressed in heavy winter coats with a dusting of snow on the collar. The air smells of ancient Ukrainian pine forests and clean running streams. I coax them in and they sit, pull off their gloves, warm their hands by the fire then throw back the shot glasses of vodka I have left for them on my altar.

I’m so glad to see you, I say. It’s been a rough year.

My grandmother beckons me to her. Sit, Maideleh, she says.  Tell me what troubles you. She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and I catch her familiar scent: wild stormy seas and the sorrows that cling to her like a well-worn sweater. I tell her my friends have headaches or stomach aches, can’t sleep or have started drinking again. We are half out of our minds with grief over the daily atrocities – the tweets and rants, the rape of our daughters and of our earth with impunity, with entitlement. 

Child, darlinka, she croons. You want to know how we survived? We had faith. And when our faith ran out, we had each other. We lit candles on Friday nights and said thank you, thank you for each small blessing. We knew that kindness built community, that it was the fabric that wove the web that sustained us.  We grew food and medicinal herbs and shared them. We made alliances that crossed political barriers and we grew strong. We tore down walls. Toppled governments everyone said were too big to fail. 

I do not mean to make it sound easy. I mean to say we did it.

We learned to share our bread and what water we had left, because without this kindness there is no hope for peace, without this reaching out to the other saying you and I – we are the same.  You are the me I have been exiling. You are the part of me I have been looking for, the stranger with the dark eyes. You are the beloved, the mother, the son, the daughter. Come and share what I have because if you starve I starve too, and if you go thirsty my mouth is also dry.

 We are asking you to keep our stories alive. Under the skin and bone of your DNA lies the dark mystery of your inheritance. We are here to tell you that you already have within you all the brilliance, power and beauty needed to restore your world. We’ve passed down resiliency, intuition, generosity, cooperation, empathy, humor, self-reliance. Vision and imagination. The capacity for joy. Courage even when you are afraid. We have given you everything you need to survive.

We are asking you to believe that your love is enough, that forgiveness is possible, and that you are here to add the rhythm section of your heart to the garage band tuning up to the ecstatic chords of yes and yes and the holy refrain of thank you.

We ask you to imagine that your imperfect love is perfect.  To imagine that when you rise mute and disheartened, weighed down by despair, you knock on the door of your heart and say – Get up honey. It’s time to put your red dress on. Time to add your song, your dance, your heartbeat to the gathering at the edge of the forest, at all the fast running waters, at the center of the center of your life. To believe that your love, your broken hallelujah, is exactly what the world needs now.

Our ancestors are gesturing to us from over the gate today, tossing hard candies to get our attention, poking each other in the ribs, laughing, telling bawdy jokes. Invite them in with roses and wine and their favorite accordion music. Take the seeds they offer and plant them in the tangle and promise of the world waiting to bloom. Make them their favorite soup. Ask to hear again the old tales we have almost forgotten. About the village innocent who outwits the bully; the buried treasure and where the map is to be found. About the wolf and the bear who know the way home. About the unseen forces that arrive when we call for them.  

Our ancestors are here to bless us with the living waters of their grief and their joy. They are here to remind us that love never fails.

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This is an excerpt from my book The Ripening: Essays on Love, Loss, Marriage and Aging, available on Amazon.