Once again, I apologize for posting late. To my embarrassment, I fell asleep in front of my computer while I was in the middle of writing this post, and woke up with just enough time to run an errand before going over to my older brother’s house to celebrate my mother’s 75th birthday. If I’d gotten it done sooner, it probably would have been shorter.
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Today is the last day of the annual fall reminder of our mortality, a sort of Triduum for our own deaths that complements Easter.
In many countries, All Souls’ Day functions as a Memorial Day, where people go to visit, clean and maintain the graves of loved ones and have family gatherings in their memories. In Mexico and other Spanish-speaking areas, the “Day of the Dead” (El Día de los Muertos) is celebrated with altars at gravesites and at home loaded with memorial candles and ofrendas (grave offerings); images of skeletons abound, in artwork, tattoos, costumes and Catrinas (models of skeletons wearing traditional dresses), making the Goth subculture look pretty tame and Halloween absolutely pasteurized.
St. Thomas More tells his daughter Margaret, in Robert Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons, “Death comes for us all; even at our birth, death does but stand aside a little. And every day he looks toward us and muses somewhat to himself whether that day or the next he will draw nigh. It is the law of nature, and the will of God.”[1] In the procession of the dead, as well as the old European artistic tradition of the Todtentanz or Danse Macabre, something is retained that the American celebration of All Hallows’ Eve, pounded by commercialization into something bland and uninspired, has lost: Quod fuimus, estis; quod sumus, vos eritis (What we were, you are; what we are, you will be).