There is something about this time of year, at least in the northern hemisphere.  Summer seemed like it would last forever, but as the days get shorter, my thoughts turn to mortality and the ephemeral nature of life.    Halloween has gained ascendancy as a sort of carnival before the dark days of winter.   The Day of the Dead follows closely on the heels of Halloween.  In Mexico, the Day of the Dead has long been a celebration of those who came before us.  And now this holiday has been creeping northward.

The images for Day of the Dead are linked to the artists Frida Kahlo (note the bird eyebrows) and Jose Posada.

It’s at least nominally Christian, with an altar set up.

Images and cliches of Mexico.

Marigolds are the flower of choice.

This holiday is also intended as a reflection on the vanity of the living.

In the great science fiction show Babylon Five there was an outstanding episode called Day of the Dead.  In this show, everyone in a certain section had an evening visit by a dead person.   Sometimes it was someone they loved, sometimes it was an enemy, or someone they really didn’t want to see.   It was their opportunity to say something, to see and touch that person.

At that time I saw this episode, I had not lost anyone really close to me, so when I thought about who I would like to see, it was my first dog.  I would still like to see this dog (and the one who came after him). But perhaps it would be more fitting to use this holiday for a ceremony to honor the memory of those who have left us.   Without masks and costumes.

There are situations in one’s life that causes time to stand still.

l’m not sure if being jilted at the altar is a good reason, it may have been a narrow escape, but I don’t know.

The  Waldo Canyon fire was two summers  ago.   I had taken down all the pictures so the painter (decorator) could paint.  Me and the painter were standing in the living room watching together when the fire crested over the mountain, 3 miles due west.   It was hot and the sunlight through the massive black clouds of smoke turned everything a weird orangish color, like a prelude of hell.   For a while, it was uncertain how far the fire would come.   But the painter kept on painting, the fire got under control after burning down 236 houses, then later in the summer came my bereavement.   I had hung up some of the artwork, but not all of it when time stopped.  These poor pictures have sat, leaning against the wall for the past two years.

So today I decided that they had been there long enough, so finally they are in position up on the wall.

Perhaps small steps can lead to bigger ones.