Swinging by for a visit on the Day of the Dead

Feeling nostalgic these days. I do every fall as Dia de los Muertos rolls around.

I love the Day of the Dead. I like knowing that as the days grow shorter, the veil between the living & the dead, the here & the there, grows thinner. I’m comforted by feeling my loved ones within arm’s reach.

Dia de los Muertos is not a time to be sad, but a time to celebrate. Remember & celebrate the people with whom we’ve had the honor of traveling, if only for a short time. Every year, as November 2 rolls around, someone from my circle of ancestors steps out & reminds me they’re still with me.

This year, it’s my father, Keith Knowles. 1940-2005.

My dad & I had a complicated relationship. For years I struggled to win his approval. Then for years, I condemned his approval as the mark of hell. When I finally grew up (& tucked a few years of therapy under my belt), I came to see my dad as a man with his own journey.

We both worked hard to find common ground & appreciate each other, differences, short-comings & disappointments, all. Considering the variety of ways my dad & I banged heads with one another, it would have been easy to walk away from such a tense, sometimes explosive, relationship. But we didn’t. We never gave up on one another.

I’ve come to appreciate that at the end of the day, I’m a lot like my dad. I have him to thank for my integrity, my intellectual curiosity, my willingness to ask the difficult questions. He taught me how to tell a good story, & to look a person in the eye when you shake a hand, make a promise.

My partner has Keith to thank for my unwavering tenacity & my unique ability to divide the world into black & white, although I think she’d likely use different terminology in describing these traits.

I miss my dad. I’d give a lot to share one more meal, one more conversation with him. I’d tell him how glad I am that he was my father.

One tradition of the Day of the Dead that I find particularly moving is creating an altar in honor of loved ones. We decorate the altar with candles, marigolds, & photos. Then we place objects on the altar that remind us of the people who have passed &, some believe, help the spirits find their way back for a visit.

I’ve set out a bag of peanuts in their shells for my dad.

On this Dia de los Muertos, who will you be missing, honoring? If you create an altar, what items do you choose to welcome back those loved ones? And when they swing by for a visit, what one thing do you say to them?

 

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Roaming the Cemetery

I just returned from a 2-week writing residency in Martins Ferry, Ohio, a small town on the Ohio River across from Wheeling, West Virginia. 2 weeks of open time & space to work on my novel. Besides the fact that I experienced tremors from missing the series finale of Dexter, the trip was amazing. Productive, inspiring, rejuvenating.

Right across the road from the place I stayed, the MITCH Collective, is the Riverview Cemetery, which dates back to the Civil War. I walked the cemetery almost every day, browsing the gravestones & absorbing the stories & spirits of long ago.

I felt called to pass by every grave, to witness every name, & I did just that, even venturing into forgotten corners to uncover markers overgrown by the surrounding woods.

I have lost more than my share of loved ones in this lifetime, beginning at the age of 14 when I lost my uncle, Frank Breckenridge. I am honored to have such a powerful circle of ancestors on the other side, encircling me with their love.

I have always felt a relentless push to do right by these ancestors. I want to make them proud. I want them to know I carry a piece of each of them with me, & those pieces help navigate how I live, who I choose to be & the art I create.

But leaving Martins Ferry & saying goodbye to the Riverview Cemetery, I took something more–something new–back to San Diego. A cloud of consciousness if you will, an assemblage of the souls who traveled the same earth I walked in southeast Ohio, 20, 75, 150 years ago.

These spirits have no connection to my family tree, or my assumed community, yet they jumped my train for a lift, or more likely, I jumped their train for reasons I have yet to identify. Either way, I now feel intrinsically bound to this cloud of witnesses, & since returning home, I feel them behind me, like a subtle but constant tailwind, giving my wings just a little more lift.

My new traveling companions leave me in awe of the lives & hopes & dreams that came before me. They remind me our tenure on this planet is short, & while I may imagine my existence is forever, in reality, I am but one link & the chain stretches back far beyond anything I can comprehend.

My circle of ancestors & now, my assemblage of souls, challenge me to make it a good run this time around. Eventually, someone else will be wandering a cemetery, cleaning weeds off my gravestone, wondering what kind of life I led. And all that will be left are my name, date of birth, date of death, & the link I left behind. I hope it’s a worthy one.

 

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You’re in Your Skivvies Now

I’ve sat down to write this blasted first blog fifteen times. Nada. Zip. The anxiety of making a profound impression on you, the reader, has caused me to question my self-worth, my ability as a writer & perhaps most damaging, how I really look in my bathing suit.

I even tried an old trick from my Advanced Rhetoric class. Imagine the crowd in their underwear. Makes sense. How many of you ever dress up to check email, Facebook & Tumblr? I don’t know what Tumblr is, but that’s my intended hook for the younger crowd.

Still, nothing. Even with you in your skivvies, I’m not coming up with anything that will undoubtedly change how you see the world, me & the final episode of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

So, new plan. I’m punting the idea of being brilliant & witty & instead, I will write about something that everyone loves and no one can get pissed off about: puppies.

I really, really like puppies. I like puppies a lot. I like all kinds of puppies.

I credit that last sentence to my daughter when she was in first grade & had to write an “essay,” minimum length: 3 sentences. She could talk for 78 minutes without a breath, but ask her to write 3 sentences, & she jammed up like a car out of oil.

I’d like to publicly apologize for the pressure I loaded on to my 6-year-old. “Just write,” I’d say. “Something. Anything.” Now I’m the one writing about puppies.

When I was 28, the School of Cinema-Television at the University of Southern California accepted me into their MFA program. I applied having no experience in film. The only video camera I’d used was a 1984 Panasonic VHS, roughly the size of a small car. I sometimes laugh at my own audacity in even mailing the application, and yet, USC said Yes.

What did I do? I fucking jumped. I didn’t over-think it. I moved forward hard & fast. My Beagle & I hopped into our ’86 Honda Accord & drove 2,800 miles cross country, Rochester to Los Angeles, our cassette player blasting Enya. In August. With no air conditioning.

I jumped. Fearless.

17 years later, I can’t write a friggin’ blog. Everyone blogs, tweets & tumbles. I have 2 master’s degrees, & I’m stuck on a 500-word essay. What the hell happened? I no longer jump off swings (bad back), eat spicy food (gas) or run with scissors (you just never know).

When did I take on the fear? The angst? Maybe when I opened my 401K or first considered life insurance? I feel like I need a wire brush to scrub off the layers of self-doubt.

I just did a word count. 452, including title. Finally. My first blog is done.

By the way, my niece just texted me. Tumblr’s out, Instagram is in. I need a nap.

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