The first year, we stumbled onto Tucson's 100,000+ person All Souls Procession by accident. After an early dinner downtown we emerged to find swarms of face-painted, costumed people of all ages assembling, many with floats and banners, some with small personal altars. All there to commemorate their dead, to bring death out of the shadows.
We followed the throngs to the eventual climax of the procession, where a construction crane hoisted a giant paper mache urn bearing slips of paper collected along the route into the air to be set aflame. I knew I wanted to return.
We flew back the next year without much thought to what participating in a more intentional way might look like. The day before the procession I realized I wanted to make and carry an altar focused on my father's death. I looked around our little place for found objects that I could employ.
The plastic-fronted package from some greeting cards would serve as the container. The bathrobe I'd bought my father towards the end of his 18-month decline: I looked for a place I could snip a bit of the fabric and found a loop in the collar bearing the farewell benediction "Good night". Mexican bingo cards touched into archetypical themes while refrigerator magnet words put a finer point on some of the elemental emotions I experienced as I composed this 3-D collage. I topped it off with glow-in-the-dark stars and a wind-up Parking Angel left over from the days Amber and I had cruised the country in a beat-up RV, a carefree adventure that had ended with my Dad's diagnosis.
Carrying this altar through the Procession, I felt in possession of something holy. It moved me from spectator to participant. It connected me to the other bereaved who nodded in recognition or stopped me for a closer look: curious, empathetic, appreciative.
We followed the throngs to the eventual climax of the procession, where a construction crane hoisted a giant paper mache urn bearing slips of paper collected along the route into the air to be set aflame. I knew I wanted to return.
We flew back the next year without much thought to what participating in a more intentional way might look like. The day before the procession I realized I wanted to make and carry an altar focused on my father's death. I looked around our little place for found objects that I could employ.
The plastic-fronted package from some greeting cards would serve as the container. The bathrobe I'd bought my father towards the end of his 18-month decline: I looked for a place I could snip a bit of the fabric and found a loop in the collar bearing the farewell benediction "Good night". Mexican bingo cards touched into archetypical themes while refrigerator magnet words put a finer point on some of the elemental emotions I experienced as I composed this 3-D collage. I topped it off with glow-in-the-dark stars and a wind-up Parking Angel left over from the days Amber and I had cruised the country in a beat-up RV, a carefree adventure that had ended with my Dad's diagnosis.
Carrying this altar through the Procession, I felt in possession of something holy. It moved me from spectator to participant. It connected me to the other bereaved who nodded in recognition or stopped me for a closer look: curious, empathetic, appreciative.
A few years later, back for the Procession and out for a hike, I looked down to find a butterfly wing on the ground, a bit tattered but vibrant, beautiful. I thought of my friend Marcy who is, as she puts it, "livingly dying" with Stage IV ovarian cancer. I decided to make a found-object altar to my dear Cancer Warrior friend.
The Mexican bingo cards came out again... "Loteria," game of chance, seemed an apt metaphor for the random application of fate: who among us gets sick, who stays well (for now). I just happened to have an ovarian cancer fact card in my computer case from a research conference I'd attended with Marcy. Then there were the saucy refrigerator magnets, another remnant from our days on the road in our mobile home. These provided womb icons, allowing my expression of solidarity: my vulnerable lady parts = your vulnerable lady parts. That fragile, durable butterfly wing hung in a plastic sleeve with side-by-side Loteria icons for El Diablito and La Dama.
I hung the whole thing around my neck with a vaguely medical strap dotted with game-of-chance dots. It seemed to call out for a shiny bow. Perhaps a symbol of the gift of life, the gifts brought even by foreknowledge of death. Perhaps a reminder to stay present.
The Mexican bingo cards came out again... "Loteria," game of chance, seemed an apt metaphor for the random application of fate: who among us gets sick, who stays well (for now). I just happened to have an ovarian cancer fact card in my computer case from a research conference I'd attended with Marcy. Then there were the saucy refrigerator magnets, another remnant from our days on the road in our mobile home. These provided womb icons, allowing my expression of solidarity: my vulnerable lady parts = your vulnerable lady parts. That fragile, durable butterfly wing hung in a plastic sleeve with side-by-side Loteria icons for El Diablito and La Dama.
I hung the whole thing around my neck with a vaguely medical strap dotted with game-of-chance dots. It seemed to call out for a shiny bow. Perhaps a symbol of the gift of life, the gifts brought even by foreknowledge of death. Perhaps a reminder to stay present.
Tell me about the personal altars you've created!
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