The orb weaver left me Halloween morning. There was no sign of him except for the small
little web wall he had created in the clothespin. It seemed fitting that he would go on this of
all days. A reminder that attachments, while
they are here, buoy the spirit, but they leave in their wake a painful reminder
that this is a world that spins and changes, moment by moment.
A walk around the city reminds me that, here the dead have a
place at the table. Every year it is set
for them. Their favorite food and drink
on the table, a path of flower petals and candles to lights their way.
The say that it always rains around the day of the dead and
that this rain brings the spirits of the departed to their seat at the table. Some
say that they are here to visit for the month of November.
They are celebrated, their stories are told to the children
of the family, as if to say, this is who we are, this is our family, we are
strong and even in honoring the dead, we can be joyous. And when it is your
time to go, you will always have a seat here, at our table. We will light your
way.
But that is not the only lesson here. Look at these faces. They are the Katrinas. They remind the children that this life is also
an illusion. That the material world
will fade, it is a thing of momentary beauty.
Behind your smiles, the loveliness of your young face, we all look
alike. What remains of the beauty that
moved through life, is the memory. The
story that lives on in the family, and endures to say to each generation, we
are still here. We set this table as a
reverent and joyous reminder of who we are. And together we will remember, we
will eat this food and then we will dance.
