Day Of The Dead

It is November 1, and the veil between the worlds is oh-so-thin.  I currently live in the house that my grandparents had built in 1936, and in which they lived all their lives.  I light a candle by the photo of my grandmother as a young woman, and go about here doing as she did in this house day after day: preparing food, sweeping, hanging clothes outside to dry or downstairs in the basement warmed by Mary Ann, the huge old heater that reminds me of her namesake Mary Ann the steam shovel the picture book Mike Mulligan And His Steam Shovel, who ended up becoming the heater for the new town hall.   The full-page magazine photo of Pres. JFK and his beautiful wife Jackie no longer graces the wall on the basement staircase.  And much of the furniture that served my grandparents for 60 or 70 years has been replaced by ours.  Still.  The gentle spirit of mis abuelitos continue here, walking the floors, tending the roses.  When I prepare food, I create a special plate for them ~ and for all mis abuelos from throughout time.  I place it at the base of the huge medicine tree in the backyard, the incense-cedar.  I offer prayers and thanksgiving, and open my senses to the boundless nature of our expansive universe, and to the delicate markings of jeweled thyme.