“Reach in the darkness
A reach in the dark.”
Paul Simon
The Rhythm of the Saints
Tradition says this is a time of year when matter and spirit mingle. The boundary between darkness and light becomes sheer now, at the end of harvest.
What are some signs of this veil-thinning? In America people roam the streets dressed as darling reapers, celebrities, and Revlon vampires. Kids go door to door bagging candy, the older ones competing to see who’ll amass the most. These rituals aren’t just driven by egos and appetite, a wise woman told me. Apparently we’re stockpiling against loss, warding off the worry that there isn’t enough time to get everything we want.
Winter is coming, sure as death embraces us all. Commerce has taken advantage of this fact. Halloween is now America’s second largest consumer holiday, beating Valentine’s Day with nearly $7 billion in sales. Our frolic with fear also coincides with politics. Surely there’s an occult reason why Election Day comes this time of year. Campaigners haunt our minds with big media buys, scaring up votes by painting opponents as evil.
Some monsters are real, of course. Like Monsanto.
Yet there are older rituals to fall back on. Where I grew up, in southern Appalachia, some rural folks hold working picnics to spruce up family cemeteries. Ancestor worship is taboo there, but respect for the dead is a deep human bond. It’s customary to rake leaves around the headstones, pull weeds, or re-arrange plastic flowers.
More colorful practices abound further south. In Mexico it’s common for households to construct altars in memory of loved ones. A portion of these “ofrendas,” or offerings, is left at candle-lit graves. The tokens of affection may include flowers, food, beverages, or tobacco. Nighttime visits to beautifully adorned Mexican cemeteries evoke an utterly different emotion than is conjured up by American pop culture. Thinning of the veil brings joyful reunion, not fear of ghosts.
The tradition is similar to that found throughout Latin America and parts of Europe. It’s kin to the Catholic observance of All Saints’ Day, which honors people who’ve attained the “beatific vision” of paradise. A related solemnity — All Souls’ Day – commemorates believers who’ve died yet are still on the path to that blessed state.
On quiet fall days at my bookshop I’m compelled to remember souls who’ve passed on. Whenever I read the word “beatific” I think of Beat writers who spice my shelves with wild riffs of consciousness — Kerouac, Ginsberg, Welch, et. al. I think of all the bohemian brethren who’ve valued beauty and fellowship over materialism, outsiders inspired to transcend the status quo of a given time.
My friend Michael Burgess springs to mind. No, not the right-wing Republican Congressman who occupies Dick Armey’s old seat in Texas. I speak of the local artist who’s writings and conversations brought smiles to many readers here on the stormy Oregon coast. Uncle Mike seems as close to the beatific vision as anyone I’ve come across.
A fellow villager swears she spoke with Michael in the months following his death. Curious about his devotion to quantum physics, she asked him whether she should investigate that field of study. He told her it might not be the best use of her time, since she already understood the basic principals without speaking the jargon.
Not too long ago people were burned at the stake for chatting with the dead. Back then, I suspect the wood would have been piled higher for anyone who tried to speak with them about physics. Terrifying rumors would circulate. Mere mention of certain names and locations would be used to dissuade further talk.
Thankfully, beatific folk still wander into my shop. In fact a fearless Lakota woman came by while I was working on this post. We started off talking about birth signs and generational identity, then circled round to the topic of mortality. I told her I was writing about this season’s thinning veil.
“I don’t see any separation between the worlds,” she said matter-of-factly. “I talk to my ancestors all the time. Some of my best friends are dead people.”
Welcome to the first day of the Christmas shopping season! Happy All Saints Day and Day of the Dead! And coming up this weekend, we try to head off the darkness with a simple spin of the clock hands. And don’t forget the Stormy Weather Arts Festival, which always seems to bring its namesake upon us, this year evidently included. And then the ultimate horror, Election Day, rears it’s ugly tail (that’s right, in these parts, it’s the last day of the voting season via mail; one of the few things we use mail for these days), when we’ll finally find out if those evil GMOs will have to be labelled in Washington state, and whether the Seaside School District gets to build their mega-campus.
If you want real darkness and despair, take the recent discovery that the Gaia hypothesis may be wrong. I wonder what Uncle Mike thinks about that. I think I’ll ask him. I’m sure the answer will be interesting.
Great writing, Brother Watt. Oh, a couple of other things coming up. Diwali, the Indian Festival of Lights, starts this weekend (the Jewish version is early this year, in fact before Thanksgiving!) and the absolutely darkest, most evil, contemptuous day of the year is fast approaching — property tax is due on the 15th! Ahhhhhhhhhhh%#!!
I suppose we should remember that the Fifth of November is also a cultural marker for this time of year. The Guy Fawkes mask has become a global symbol of protest, thanks to the thespian-ninja dude from “V for Vendetta”. V reminds us of two responses to the oppressive force of fear. We can become violent, or we can use our words. God help us choose the latter.
Scientific bigwigs who poo-poo Gaia probably won’t put much stock in any words of wisdom you receive from Uncle Mike. But do keep detailed notes and let us know what happens.
How fitting for Watt to invoke the memory of Michael Burgess during the season of Dia de los Muertos – Day of the Dead.
Michael remains, and always will, one of the spirits now departed from this physical plain, (read ‘veil of tears’) whom I dearly and sorely miss.
My own memory of Michael in person is to find him on a Friday during ‘vespers’ seated at the bar in the old Bill’s Tavern. He wore a smile wry and hugely warm at once. He would tell me how lovely it was to see me, and make some tasteful, kind comment like ” You’re looking good girl.” Now who does not want to hear that? But it seemed genuine, coming from him. Michael, as anyone who know him would agree, was not a bullshitter. He liked to philosophize, and talk about life, politics, real things, but he never made small talk. His thoughts were anything but small.
The other way, the first way I encountered Michael was reading his columns in the Edge. I was impressed by how he wove clear conceptions of physics with Buddhist references. I had never read anything like it. His writing made me laugh too. The combination was delightful, like MIchael himself. When I did finally meet him in person I was all aflutter talking to someone so intelligent and cool. He made me at ease, and asked me about myself and my life. He became an instant friend.
The last time I saw him was at The Warren House Pub. We don’t ever know when we are seeing a person for the last time. I talked with him as though we would see each other many more times in passing, and I would watch for his future books.
When I learned of his death a few months later I felt robbed, I was working and unable to attend the memorial. It felt interminably sad, the physics of how life kept me from getting to share in the community farewell to a well loved man. So this will be, in part, how I make up for that. The other thing I’ll do in memory of Michael is something he encouraged me to do – write more, write lots, just write like no one is watching.
Thank you Watt, for bringing Michael to mind on this auspicious day.
You catapulted my interest with “veil of tears”. Made me wonder whether that expression — if applied to Day of the Dead — might point to a diminishment of the sadness that separates us from loved ones who no longer exist on the physical plain (at least not in a way we perceive most days of the year).
Wikipedia says the phrase is actually “vale of tears,” or “valley of tears” (from the Latin “valle lacrimarum”). Makes me think of the 23rd Psalm — “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil…”
Uncle Mike gave his life to words, probably as much as any psalmist. When I write and edit and wonder at meaning I often feel like we’re still inhabiting the same world.
Ah, Watt I must say that in the middle of the night after I wrote that post, I too realized that it is a ‘vale’ of tears, as in valley, not a thing worn over the face. I plotted to send in a correction, and … well, never did.
When I was a little kid being steeped in Catholic verse, we often said those words, “vale of tears” in the context of an oft repeated prayer. ( $1 to anyone who can name it) I am certain, when small, that I thought it was like the thing a bride wears, and so my unconscious mind spelled it that way still, after all these years. Thanks for setting it right.
Another part of my childhood that included valley was a song our music teacher nuns had in the St. VIncent’s songbook : “Down in the valley, valley so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
Hear the wind blow dear, hear the wind blow, hang your head over, hear that wind blow.”
The fact that “vale of tears” is a traditional phrase doesn’t detract from what “veil of tears” did to me when I read it. What may seem like a mistake in one sense can open a new vein of meaning, re-orient our vane of understanding. Plus our exchange of words pointed me to this wonderful little video. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMJGuaNbXJ4
Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy – it is the prayer after you finish reciting the rosary….I think – just so you and Sister Mary Katherine – rest her soul – know I really did pay attention.
Physical plain? Does this mean something that is touchable and not ornate? I think it’s “physical plane” as in the flat mathematical sense. No?
Yes! Maybe there are certain times when diction gets blurry, and the sounds and shapes of words get mixed up in ways that reveal strange meanings. Or maybe I just spell bad.
Wonder what would happen if our written language didn’t include vowels…