Among the Marigolds

 

“This is part of my healing,” I told Amy as we headed home from the neighboring village of Atzompa, where we had gone to witness the Día de Muertos celebrations. I felt a twinge of guilt for perhaps disobeying doctor's orders after my recent abdominal operation, but the evening had, as I explained to her, “filled my soul.”

We arrived around 5:30, as twilight descended and the golden hour swept across the old cemetery. The graves were covered with marigolds, or cempasuchil, and still more blossoms arrived by wheelbarrow and armfuls. Their brilliant orange and yellow petals glowed in the fading light, as though the earth itself were offering up a final burst of sunlight.

Amy and I walked respectfully among the graves as relatives of the deceased carefully tended the resting places of their loved ones, scattering petals and arranging flowers. As darkness gathered, candles were lit, their small flames flickering everywhere, illuminating faces, flowers, and the names of those who had departed.

There was something deeply moving about the tenderness of it all. Here, death was not hidden away or spoken of in whispers. The living came to keep company with the dead, bringing flowers, light, remembrance, and love. The veil between the two worlds seemed very thin.

People were cordial and gracious, seemingly untroubled by my photography, or at least forgiving of it. Unlike the crowded streets of Oaxaca's centro, where the festivities attract throngs of visitors, here the atmosphere felt more intimate, rooted in the enduring traditions of the community.

Outside the cemetery, the streets were alive with another kind of celebration. Booths offered carnival games, food, and all manner of goods. Families strolled together, children played, and the sounds of commerce and merriment mingled with the solemn beauty we had just witnessed.

We wandered among the crowds until my abdominal wound and sutures began to protest. It was time to go home.

I have spent months attending to the demands of my body, sometimes feeling that life is passing by while I wait for healing to be complete. But this evening reminded me that healing is not only a matter of wounds closing and flesh mending. There is another kind of restoration that comes from stepping into the world, opening the heart, and allowing beauty and human connection to do their quiet work.

We returned home satisfied that we had not entirely missed Día de Muertos in our community.

My body had asked me to stop, but my soul was grateful we had gone.