Spring
has finally sprung. This is the time of year that I pull out my box from
Samhain, from when we spoke the names of Ancestors and Beloved Dead and burned
their ribbons in the fire. It is the time I take to prepare for the shrines I
hold between Beltane and Samhain.
I
pulled out white muslin and cut new ribbons, one inch by twenty-one inches. I
cut one-hundred and one ribbons, adding them to what was left of last year. I
folded them up and slid a straight pin through them.
A
little danger as sacrifice for standing in the presence of the Ancestors.
I
cut blue ribbons for those who died since last year’s shrines. My hands trembled
at the list of names of loved ones who passed this last year. The seasons of
hard losses stick under my ribs.
I
ironed the ribbons one at a time. It is a meditation I enjoy. That level of mindfulness
is the least I could do. So many remembered dead dance through my heart, as
they did in life.
Mark Dutcher
Eaton*, Melinda Tanner, Elizabeth Fricke,
Jeff Patterson, Willie Lingenfelter, Elsie Durant Riddle*, Gabe Reynolds, Joel
Pelletier, Victoria Eaton*, Edward J.
Jerge II, Trent Illig, Donna MacDonald Riddle*, Jurgen Banse-Fey, Charles ‘Sienna
Fox’ Duvall, Jack Singer, Tommy Amyotte, Paul Seeloff, Richard James Riddle*, Andrew
Begley, Susan Alvarez-Hughes, Coswald Mauri*, Norm Herbert, Jad Alexander, Dr.
August Staub, Princess Leather Falcor*, Melvin Chausse, John Simeon Croom, Karl
Weber, Luna Jackalope*, Albert Gritzmacher III, Freya Moon Greenleaf, Patches
the Crazy Circus-Freak Dog*, Barbara Jean Schiffert, Bella the Bear-Cat*, Joe
Quagliano*, Soja Arumpanayil, Tracy Lee Flint Jr., Christina Adkins, Harry T.
Brashear, David Ruston Eaton*, Carol Quagliano*, Paul Ames*, Robert Kiff, Sumant
Malhotra, David Knight, Amy Maxwell, Ruth Ann Livingston Kiff, Zami*, Joseph
Croteau, Norm Eaton*, Patricia Ann Art-Slomba*…
They
are not forgotten.
I
breathed deep and exhaled. And then my heart skipped.
This
year the heat startled me. It pulled me from my litany of names, from my
ancestors. The heat scared me. It’s a sign of how well-recovered I feel that I
stepped back into my spiritual habit without remembering that I have not
handled the iron since being on fire. I forgot that my wife did this part for
me, sacredly, the last two years.
I
ironed all of the ribbons. Slowly, reverently, cautiously, and carefully. My
hands were unsteady and clumsy as I have been since recovering but I did not
burn myself. My ancestors stood with me, hovering like they did in the Burn ICU.
But
I ironed all the ribbons.
My
wife came home soon after and ironed the prayer flags I use to mark the entrances
to the shrines. There are 63 flags, all hand cut and hand sewn. It was a way of
layering magic, fluttering flags calling those who hear to come greet their ancestors.
This
is what it means to build a practice. This is how I prepare to honor the dead. Focus.
Intention. Work. The spirits from the other side who meet me in the middle sure
do help. This is how we open a doorway that others may walk through if they
desire it.