BRING OUT YOUR DEAD: FEAR, FIRE AND THE VEIL

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“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

“Be hole, be dust, be dream, be wind/Be night, be dark, be wish, be mind,/Now slip, now slide, now move unseen,/Above, beneath, betwixt, between.”
Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book

It’s All Souls Day, The Day of the Dead, one of my favorite times of the entire year. As much as I celebrate the veil getting thin well before this day—and well beyond it—the mindfulness of lighting a special candle, wrapping myself up in my Grandma’s afghan, and pulling up to my ancestral roots in front of a roaring fire was exactly what my soul had been hankering for this year.  It’s just so . . . purposeful.  Mindful.  Full.

But, it’s not just about tracing that DNA back through time and listening to the thump of your heart against the rattle of their bones.  I have my friends reaching through that veil, too.  And yes, I believe that sometimes they reach.  Last night, long after the roasted pumpkin bowls of butternut soup had been stacked in the kitchen, three of us were the last here.  Sadly, and it stings a bit to say, not everyone was in the mood or had the time to dig into a real ritual, a real talk, a real anything other than food.  The last three of us stayed up to midnight.

We chatted against the fire thinking out loud about how, if someone tried to speak through that veil, some of us might never hear it.  The reasons are multiple, really: we already have too many blocks up, we aren’t paying attention, we aren’t still and present . . . but that first reason has me all yanked up, y’all.  See, I reckon if a “ghost” suddenly walked across the room, some poor soul might piss their britches.  We resist, don’t we?  Oh, that was a flickering light, right?  In fact, I reckon we have purposefully turned off most of our antennae in order to live.  If we get “spooked,” we might turn on the lights, switch on a comedy on the t.v., pull the covers over our heads.  These moments must be contained, right?  I mean, standing around in a salt circle—special candle out—calling on spirits and ancestors all purposeful like.  Mindfully.  Hmmm.

We ended up philosophizing on the concept of the sixth sense—that kismet place where all senses are firing at once, allowing for a more perfect union.  Here’s a silly analogy: have y’all seen Mr. Right? He’s a dancing killer for hire who teaches (or reminds) his romantic interest to feel, to listen, to breathe with a vibration or a “current” running under everything.  All the time.  Yupper.  So, as much as I adore my mindful, purposeful November 1st ritual—on account of it’s special and all—that kind of vibration cannot be contained neatly in a 24-hour box. 

We talked about more than that.  I factored that one of the hardest things I ever attempted to work with, instead of against, is fear.  Our fight-or-flight instincts are hardwired for our survival, but it occurs to me that it’s a might difficult to ascertain whether the fear is from a direct threat or something unknown, strange, and wondrous when we’re busy screaming like a billy goat.   Rather, my old ass gets really, really still trying to fire all of my senses and take a bit of an assessment of the situation.  I ride the fear. 

I remember decades ago living with a, um, poltergeist or some such.  I don’t speak of it much, but y’all: this was the scariest my ghosts ever got.  It would shake my bed.  Hard.  Well after I went to sleep, the tremors would begin and I’d wake to that terror in the dark.  It never happened if my tiny son was in the bed, so I didn’t fuss much when he wanted to sleep with me.  One night, I was just bone tired when it happened, rightly pissed off too.  After all, I had to get up in a few hours and this damn thing had terrorized me enough.  And so, I just closed my eyes and rode it.  No light on, no whoopin’ and hollerin’, just went back to sleep while my bed rocked and rolled.  I still wonder if it just gave up, like a not-yet-ready green fella from Monsters, Inc.  It just . . . stopped.

I reckon I was disappointing.

Of course, I don’t suggest that all things that go bump in the night are easily assuaged.  I am putting forth that reaching down and pulling up yor’ bootstraps in such a moment is a smart move, Batchildren.  How are you gonna tell hide from hair on the situation otherwise?  ‘Specially if you’ve done cut on the lights, turned on Golden Girls, and squealed like a baby witch at her first séance.  Now.  Imagine that spirit is your grandma . . . you think she’s planning to hang around if you are having a hissy fit?  Right. 

See, the hair on my neck and my arms rises when “good” spirits show up, just the same as anything else.  Mayhap that’s just me. But, to be fair, I get it.  Containing such an experience in a special day, a carefully maintained ritual or the like gives a sense of control and protection.

Except . . . I’m not so sure that the universe works that way. 

What I really think is that we have worked so hard to be numb that when we do (upon occasion) run smack into something from the other side of the veil, we act a fool.  I’m not so sure we are protected by our blinders.  In fact, I have to wonder if it’s not the exact opposite.  Gotta check my blindspots, y’all. 

Either way, I’m honoring the day.  I don’t expect to contain it, to regulate it, or to mark it off nice and neat—I want it to be messy.  A moment to fall on my knees and sob at the memories until I can feel my beloveds reaching into me, until I can hear my gran’s voice all around me, until the smell of roses and dirt and biscuit dough are all I can taste in the back of my throat.  Until I can see my father’s cigarette glow on the back of my eyelids and hear his laughter wind its way down into my chest.  Until my daughter, Riley, dances near my cheek and my hands can hold her sweet little head against my breast.  I want to smell and taste and feel and hear them all until the other sense kicks in and I become part of their world, not the other way around.

I don’t want to contain it.  I want to spill over the edges, rush across the floor and spark up through the chimney into the cold smoke in the dark.  Become the same, just for a time, until I have to go back to the daily chores of taxes and light bills and haircuts, riding the fear in complete abandon with those who have come before me and those I have lost for a time.

I promise not to holler.   Well. Not unless it’s their beautiful names.

May you and yourn be blessed.

Seba


Seba O'Kiley2 Comments