Connection thru the Elements: In Celebration of our Beloved Dead
Last year, I had the privilege of traveling to Oaxaca, Mexico, for Dia de los Muertos. Music, elaborate altars, and bright orange cempōhualxōchitl (marigolds) filled the zocolos (neighborhood parks / town centers). Street art with hearts, skulls, and butterflies decorated doorways and walls, all in honor of the dead, and maybe a little extra for tourism’s sake.
I was often brought to tears by the care, color, and creativity I saw.
Here in the States, we have Halloween, usually celebrated by children and adults dressing up in costumes, followed by All Souls’ Day and All Saints’ Day for religious folks. Like so many holidays today, these three days can feel superficial, filled with candy, alcohol, and prayer, respectively. But these high holy days’ roots are deep.
Before being enveloped by Christianity, the Gaelic harvest festival Samhain was celebrated as a liminal time, between seasons and between worlds. Vigils lasted overnight and offerings of food and drink were made in hospitality to the dead. Later, Allhallowtide (October 31 through November 2) became a time to honor martyrs, saints and “faithfully departed Christians.” Simply put, this pagan cultural holiday was colonized by the Church.
We were in a small Oaxacan mountain town eating delicious goat tacos and drinking agua de Jamaica (hibiscus iced herbal drink) when a funeral procession passed by. The beckoning blare of trumpets was not unlike what you’d witness in a New Orleans’ funeral second line. In Oaxaca and New Orleans, separated by culture, language, and around 1,500 miles, there’s almost an expectation of art, music, and affection in the wake of someone’s death.
This has stayed with me and got me thinking about the ways my parents and ancestors processed the death of their loved ones.
My father's recent people are not from New Orleans; they are country Creoles from Opelousas, Louisiana, who, by force and necessity, traded their Indigenous African cultural, spiritual, and religious traditions for the illusion of safety in the cloak of Catholicism. The hauntings of chattel slavery and Jim Crow laws pervaded generation after generation.
In contrast, my mother’s recent people are from Colo and Independence, Iowa, and live in the corners of my imagination because I didn’t grow up around them. They traded their Irish, German, and Cornish cultures for the flattened identity and privilege of American whiteness.
What I know of my ancestors is mostly in my bones and in my books: vibrant colors muted and cultural expressions sedated. Be quiet, be small, and most of all, be afraid.
There I was, stuck somewhere in the middle, born in the era of soul, disco, and hip hop. But there were no brass bands or dancing in the street for me — although I occasionally danced in front of my aunt’s house, rapping with my cousins and the neighborhood kids. The soundtrack of my youth was mostly Immaculate Heart Catholic Radio 1260 AM, and instructions from my grandmother on how to be obedient.
I can barely remember my father’s funeral almost 40 years ago; his stiff pale face has become a haunting memory. My mother’s funerals over 20 years ago were quiet, solemn and very Catholic. Yes, she had two services: one for her family in her hometown where she died, and the second in my hometown for my father’s family, where her urn would be buried with his casket.
Instead of second lines, rhythmic clapping, or beautifully decorated altars, there are tears, condolences, and prayers to Mother Mary that have colored the landscape of my grief.
In Oaxaca, too, Mother Mary is deeply revered; Baroque-style churches are absolutely monumental, taking up incredible amounts of space, land, and attention. They’re both beautiful and grotesque, with the artistry and skill of the Indigenous people’s craftsmanship hiding the harms of forced labor. Our tour guide, visibly mixed race like I am, said that Oxacaqueños, although colonized by Spain for 500 years, don’t identify with the colonizer. While being devout Catholics, they’ve somehow also held onto their Indigenous roots as much as possible. And, my goodness, it is beautiful. And loud. And unashamed.
This landed in my heart deeply as someone whose ancestors include both the enslaved, the enslavers, the colonizers, and the colonized. Connecting to Indigeneity would feel disingenuous to me, having ancestors from here, from there, and like my grandfather would say, “a little bit from everywhere.”
So, what does the land here, the land there — the everywhere lands — have in common? Quite a lot.
A few years ago, I learned that my relationship with the natural world as a descendant of kidnapped and enslaved Africans could be considered Hoodoo: a Black American non-linear closed tradition of herbalism, spiritualism, and animism. And it just so happens that Nov 1st is of deep significance to Hoodoo practitioners as a day to visit gravesites and honor ancestors within the folds of the more acceptable Catholic holiday, All Saints’ Day.
Like so many folks, my grandmother, Mother Dumas, didn’t use any label on herself when she prepared black eyed peas for good luck on New Year’s Day. There was no label for when she said hello to her dead children anytime the wind blew the door shut.
Mother Dumas wore a scapular around her neck with pendants of Mother Mary safely pinned to the cloth for protection, not unlike a mojo bag. And her grandmothers taught her how to move through this world, in the garden and in the kitchen, within the confines of Catholicism — watering the garden at dusk so the water doesn’t evaporate under the warmth of the sun, drinking a thumb of brandy when you’re first feeling sick, and leaving a candle lit in an overnight vigil when someone has died. These were a part of the acceptable subversive ways they learned to embody old traditions in a hungry, hateful, new world.
These practices weren’t loud like the trumpet’s song or bright like papel picado, but even the way my grandmother would hold soil in her hand while tending her rose garden or the way she salted a pot of food on the stovetop with prayer was sacred, ancestral interaction.
There is wonder infused into the simplest actions, and connection to the land that sings louder than the silenced ancestors whose names we’ll never know. So, indeed, what do “the everywhere lands” have in common?
The elements. Earth. Wind. Water. Fire. Spirit.
As someone whose childhood friendships included my neighbor Mr. Tyler’s loquat tree, this makes sense to me. No matter what continent you’re on (or solar system), the building blocks of the universe that make life possible are present: helium, oxygen, carbon, magnesium, lithium, and so on.
The wind is to be listened to.
The water protected.
The fire respected.
The soil held.
The spirit embodied.
We the trees.
We the humans.
We the soil.
We the thunderstorms.
We the flame.
We come from all of it. And so do all who have come before us.
As the dark nights grow longer and the veil between here and there becomes thinner, our beloved dead want to be remembered — all of them, from our most recent relatives to the shiny minerals that power our smartphones. It's our birthright and duty to build relationships with our human ancestors, as well as the building blocks of all life and creation, with care, with creativity, and without shame.
So, I invite you to join me in this sacred, yet simple, commemoration.
Practice: Between October 31 through November 2, participate in an elemental ritual to honor your ancestors:
Create a simple altar in your home. Use a cloth of significance or beauty as a base, and place the elements with care on the cloth. A glass of water, a plant, rock or bowl of dirt, a candle, a small glass or bottle of alcohol (aka spirits) and a feather or leaf. Include photos and flowers if you’d like.
Visit the altar each day for a few minutes with reverence and respect. Say hello to your ancestors of good character as you light the candle, naming who you can. Thank them for giving you life. Like any relationship, as you speak to and honor them, leave space for them to connect with you, too. Be sure to keep the alcohol and feather/leaf away from the flame.
To close the daily practice, gently blow out the candle and watch as the smoke floats into the air. If you use a battery operated candle or unlit candle for safety reasons, still blow on the imagined flame to close the space. You can also place orange or red items like crayons to represent the flames.
At the end of these three sacred days, mindfully take apart your altar. Or, you can continue to build a daily practice of connection and let your intuition — and ancestors — guide you.