All Saints. And who are you talking to today?
This is my favorite day. Hallowe'en is good. But this is the slow, limnal space which comes after. And it's better.
It's one of those small heresies the church couldn't put down. Could only mask in the trappings of Christianity. All Saints Day, when the spirits gather in graveyards to honor the dead. In the South, where my family comes from, it's much more personal. Offices don't make you work on All Saints Day. Children don't go to school. You get dressed up in your suit, in good clothes. You go to the family plot. Nobody talks, no-one takes a lunch. People cry, but you never mention it. Nothing is said and no soft sympathies are exchanged. Alone in your sorrow, if you have any. Alone in your relief, if you have that instead. And all day, for 24 hours, you're not supposed to be sure whether the person you're talking to in a coffeehouse or on the street is a person. Or a spirit. It's the day when the immateria mixes with the materia. A peace, a cease-fire between death and life. The balance point. An ellipsis.
It's wonderful to walk through a quiet graveyard, and a cold and beautiful November afternoon. To feel the soft swish of your coat against headstones, see old women with rosaries in hand quietly thinking over a tombstone. It's nice to see people take a time out. To really think.
I'm going to a graveyard before class. There is a grave I could visit. I've got the stones in one pocket, salt in another. I'll take a little bit of the South with me into the cold fall.
This is my favorite day. Hallowe'en is good. But this is the slow, limnal space which comes after. And it's better.
It's one of those small heresies the church couldn't put down. Could only mask in the trappings of Christianity. All Saints Day, when the spirits gather in graveyards to honor the dead. In the South, where my family comes from, it's much more personal. Offices don't make you work on All Saints Day. Children don't go to school. You get dressed up in your suit, in good clothes. You go to the family plot. Nobody talks, no-one takes a lunch. People cry, but you never mention it. Nothing is said and no soft sympathies are exchanged. Alone in your sorrow, if you have any. Alone in your relief, if you have that instead. And all day, for 24 hours, you're not supposed to be sure whether the person you're talking to in a coffeehouse or on the street is a person. Or a spirit. It's the day when the immateria mixes with the materia. A peace, a cease-fire between death and life. The balance point. An ellipsis.
It's wonderful to walk through a quiet graveyard, and a cold and beautiful November afternoon. To feel the soft swish of your coat against headstones, see old women with rosaries in hand quietly thinking over a tombstone. It's nice to see people take a time out. To really think.
I'm going to a graveyard before class. There is a grave I could visit. I've got the stones in one pocket, salt in another. I'll take a little bit of the South with me into the cold fall.