Dia de los Muertos

October 2016

One year ago, on November 1, the traditional Mexican Day of the Dead, I honored my mother’s death. I had found her on her bedroom floor just ten days earlier, and several days after she had stopped returning my calls. Her death was sudden and unexpected – a brain aneurism that I pray every day took her quickly and without pain. Even in the depth of my sadness, I know that both she and I were so lucky for that quick passing. No days, months or years of slow decay, confined to her bed – or horror of horrors, in a hospital bed that was not her own.  And I know she was ready, despite her good health; she had told me so.

My mother was not afraid of death. She spoke of it openly with my son, even made clear that certain objects could be his after her passing. She insisted that after her death he finish building her sustainable house atop a mesa in northern New Mexico. He was eager for the Brazilian dart gun, but was less convinced that he would be finishing the house that she had already been constructing for 16 years – and counting.

Now a year past and I am in Mexico, where Day of the Dead is an extremely important cultural celebration. It lasts a week in fact, with a busy industry surrounding it. Near the central square in San Miguel there are dozens of vendors offering colorful sugar skulls, candles, and other offrendas ready for you to create an alter to your beloveds. Aiden made a day of it and chose sugar skulls, chickens, rams, and Catrinas (the skeletal female figure most common in Day of the Dead imagery). He hung paper decorations and bought candles. And he is always one to make sure there are flowers.

We placed two photos of my mother among the offerings, with nods to his two great grandmothers, both of whom also passed in recent years, and even sugar dogs representing the deeply loved animals, which existed in our family long before he was born.

As Aiden decorated he shared a story of the games he and his grandmother used to play: Warmer/Colder, he called it, whereby one has to identify an object with the other indicating proximity using “warmer” or “colder” signals.

I realize I can’t take this acceptance and open conversation for granted. I know there are so many children, especially in America, who are shielded from all aspects of real death, and see only its extreme ugliness through video games or TV. They don’t learn of the real act of death, sometimes the ugliness, but also the inevitability, importance of and even, yes, the beauty of death. Not to mention the value of openly discussing and being empowered by having—in fact choosing—what I call a “good” death. That’s a death on your own terms, be it quickly such as in your sleep, or in your own bed through the help of hospice care (angels, all). May we all be so lucky.

Sure, Aiden is innocent enough to still think death comes only at the end of a naturally long and healthy life. He is still blessed not to personally know anyone who has died young. But he knows that death comes. It always comes. And his first experience of death came with the idea that it is not to be feared.

So it feels essential one year later to celebrate my mother. On our alter we will add coffee and chocolate to sweeten her afterlife. We will add some tequila, because that has to be good, right? And some fresh bread, without which she might never have eaten a breakfast. If I were in Madagascar I might be among those digging up her bones after several years, dancing all night and replacing them with love. She wouldn’t have cared what happened to her physical body, regardless the year. She had always wanted her body burned with little care of where the ashes would go. “I’ll be gone by then,” she told me. “Do what you want.”

This will surely be a time of some sadness – I miss my mother every day – but as the celebrations here remind me, it is also a time of gratitude, love and joy. I had a wonderful mom, with whom I had many adventures and unforgettable moments. And her relationship with my son was beautiful. We were so fortunate, and that is worth celebrating. Her funeral last year was a great send off: live music, good food and lots of friends. So it will be during this year’s Dia de los Muertos, where we will continue to honor those we loved so deeply but who are no longer with us. I’ll play some old hippie tunes, we’ll tell stories of our time together and remember the fun we had. And I’ll remind myself again that we always carry with us the ones we love. In fact, I found myself in tears the other day watching a Mexican procession I imagined my mother would have loved seeing. When I explained my tears to Aiden it took his sweet insight to bring things back into focus: “But mom, she did see it. She’s here with us. In spirit.”

And, We're OFF!

I imagine I’m not alone. That for every parent who makes a choice to take her child out of school, away from home and community, and to immerse him or her in another country and culture, there comes a moment when one says, “Oh sh-t, what have I done?” This moment likely arrives amid some sort of chaos – perhaps an unsettled living arrangement, illness from new food or more polluted atmosphere, or simply one long day of no productivity, amplified by a child’s pleas of “I’m so Booored. What can I do??? (this, often codeword for Can I play on your phone or some other electronic device.) If I stick to my guns of no or limited device use, it reminds me that I am also the sole play pal, homeschool teacher, disciplinarian, cook, and comfort giver. Plus all the other crap us single moms are in charge of – no small load at that. So this moment came, shortly after our arrival in Mexico. We were at our fourth home/hotel stay in three weeks and I was getting very grumpy. With such constant movement, I was unable to settle into any writing/thinking/quiet time discipline. None of those imagined cheap yet luscious massages, long yoga classes or endless hours of life contemplation and research. Not to mention 8-hour sleep cycles I so desperately needed.

I left the US to Do Nothing, after a year of juggling what felt like three full time jobs in hostile environments and with health and home challenges, plus trying to carve out time to be a mom -- not to mention mourn the loss of my own mom, whose death was so sudden I’d hardly had time to absorb it all. So off we went. In search of Time. Some people called it a “vacation,” which, by American standards, is probably the only way some people can make sense of such journeys. Unless you’ve actually traveled, felt the challenges, and realized that in other countries, families aren’t torn apart by endless “work” hours, by lack of support for mothers and families, by lack of understanding that productivity should not be measured by the number of hours in a day or where that work is conducted (some of the most small minded folks I’ve worked with of late feel that sitting at a desk in an office is the only place where “work” happens). In other countries, people have leisure time, and yes, still live extremely productive lives. There is flexibility in work hours and more of an understanding that with greater familial and individual support, often efficiency and productivity increases.

It isn’t only time that we’re searching for, and indeed finding, but so many of the other benefits that travel can best provide.

Traveling also can force you to be vulnerable, sometimes on a daily basis, and it confronts you with the kindness of strangers. Sure there are dangers, like anywhere. But there are few other experiences where you must ask for help in so many ways, and count on the generosity of others, particularly in a place where you don’t speak the language. In turn, it has always made me want to help others more, both at home and abroad.

Travel makes you more compassionate when you realize how little people exist on every day, and how resourceful they are and often have to be. It reminds us how materialistic our culture is, and how consumerism is a national American pastime. It makes us do more with less. In fact, despite cries for more legos, toys, plastic crap and more, one of Aiden’s most used toys here is a small rubber superball with long ribbons attached. We’ve spent many evening hours bouncing the ball high into the sky, in coordination with or merely side by side with other Mexican children. Definitely outlasting some of the other more expensive items that have made their way into our household.

And travel at this time in my life is part of my rethinking of education. In fact I consider this travel a very active search for an alternative to standardized testing-focused schooling (and sadly, the $20k/year private schools in NM are simply not an option for me). Here we have a language challenge, immersion in a different culture, and the exploration of new and different schools. We’ve found a great unschooling center surrounding a pond filled with tiny frogs, with horses and sheep wandering nearby. Or a more “traditional” school, which teaches mythology using Rick Riordan books. There are Catholic and international schools with high price tags, and public Mexican schools where the level of education is still questionable. But the exploration continues. I might admit soon that I’m not the best homeschool teacher, which seems to require a level of consistency, dedication and scheduling that I tend to avoid generally while traveling. But education is a continuum and I can’t forget the larger picture: that leaving your place of comfort is often where the greatest growth occurs.

This trip also makes me think about national dialogues, ours in particular. Having been immersed in media for much of my life and career, taking a break from this noxious, toxic environment is a blessing. Sure, some of the Trump obscenities sneak through -- my favorite being the Dr. Seuss tweets -- but it’s not shouting at me from every newspaper, TV or radio ad.  It is work trying to avoid one of the most racist, sexist, and virulent (if not outright violent) election cycles I’ve encountered in my lifetime. But most days I am successful, which means I am not as easily pulled down by the crazies. Not a small point for one’s general and mental health.

I don’t want to romanticize too much, because travel is difficult. And sometimes very uncomfortable. For example, losing a month’s rent when we realized that our mold-filled nasty hotel right next to a disco was simply not going to work, well that just plain sucked. Plus, I miss the mountains. I miss the clean air. I miss my easily accessible organic foods. And I miss my dogs. My lungs seem to have adjusted to the emissions-spewing vehicles down here, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. Though it does make the days go by easier. And becoming volunteers at the local animal shelter has taken off some of the edge from our current dog-free lives. But living without a car and depending on a bus system that in this town can only be learned by psychic interpretation (as there are no maps indicating routes, nor consistent signage on any bus that indicates where it might be traveling!) is a great challenge.  But challenges make you stronger, right? They certainly make me more appreciative of the ease with which I live in America. But that ease comes with a price to society and to the environment that not many Americans care to think about. Yet I’m having to think a lot about it here.

So perhaps that Oh Sh-t moment is not as profound as it sounds or feels. Perhaps it’s just the residue of jumping in and taking a big risk and not knowing yet how it will all work out. It’s living without familiar comforts and without a PLAN. Which can be really scary. And when things settle in and you find the house and town that works, you realize that those moments come and go, regardless of where you are.

Sitting here and watching Aiden read in a hammock with the beautiful city of San Miguel spread out before us, with Legos spread on a table and fresh mangoes on the kitchen counter, I have to remember that this kind of time together is rare. And time I did not have and could not afford in Santa Fe. So today, rather than asking questions or wondering about my choices, I’ll simply count my blessings. Indeed I have so many.