Marigolds and Margaritas
Two worlds share a table this week. Time to light the candles, follow the marigolds and raise a glass.
Once a year, the door between two worlds is left politely ajar, and Mexico throws a party right on the threshold. Día de los Muertos is no day of mourning, quite the contrary: candles, music, sugar skulls, and the hostess herself, La Catrina, in her finest feathered hat. Death, in this part of the world, is no bogeyman. She is an old acquaintance, a friend every one of us will follow sooner or later, so one might as well be on first-name terms. Fragile as bone china, and yet firmly final. Charming company, all things considered.
According to Mexican tradition, the departed come home for the occasion, to once again enjoy their favourite dishes, a drink or two and the songs they loved, all laid out on the ofrenda like a rather well-planned tea party. Finding one’s way back after a whole year away can’t be easy, which is why the path is marked in orange. Cempasúchil, the Mexican marigold, is said to guide souls home with its colour and rather insistent scent. Remembering those who are no longer with us has a way of sharpening the taste of the present. The visit, after all, is short for everyone.
This time of year also lends itself to a quiet bit of stocktaking, and work, naturally, has a shelf of its own. It has long been rather a large part of my life, and if things aren’t quite right there, they’re seldom quite right anywhere else. Which is precisely why, for years now, I’ve been steadily minding my own agenda in that field, thank you very much. Should a chance come along to draw from different roles and widen the view, and should it suit my plans, I won’t hesitate for long. The very same thing for ten years? I could scream “Not in my movie!” I’m rather fond of being in motion.
La muerte es democrática, as La Catrina’s creator, Posada, is said to have put it: death is democratic. Whatever we may think of ourselves, rich or poor, grand or humble, under the feathered hat we are all the same elegant skeleton. We may as well be happy, then, and live on our own terms. I’m rather busy taking life by the handful, work very much included, and dancing a good deal more than is strictly proper. For as long as I can. Marigold season merely reminds me why.
Mexican food is a standing obsession of mine, hardly news. This week's particular fancy, however, was a spicy cucumber margarita: cool, green and with just enough fire to keep things interesting. One glass, two toasts: to honour the past and those who, in one way or another, have left it, and to every box freshly ticked. Shared with the people who matter most, it's precisely the sort of warmth this colder weather calls for.
A jaunty little danse macabre, trumpets and all: whoever we are, we leave empty-handed, rich only in memories.