Editor’s note: the following piece, written by Eric Francis, was originally published on Friday, Nov. 2, 2007. It is now part of the Planet Waves archives, which contains thousands of articles and horoscopes written by Eric over the last decade. It is available for your browsing pleasure with a subscription to Planet Waves Astrology News.
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Dear Friend and Reader:
THESE NIGHTS of mid-Scorpio are when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. They are theВ Days of the Dead: All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day, Dia de los Muertos, and Dia de los Angelitos; with special days designated to honor the unbaptized, small children, those who died violently, and of course, our ancestors.В
When our world is closest to the astral world, these souls can come visit; and we can visit them, honoring our predecessors in our hearts, and also with a simple ritual such as bringing gifts to a cemetery. In American culture, we call the whole business Halloween. That is an adaptation ofВ Samhain, the high sabbat of the witch’s calendar. This is related to Beltane in May — the holiday of abundance, sex and passion.
I try to get to a cemetery every year, but my days are packed right now, and I didn’t know when I would have time. But I woke up Thursday morning (honored as New Year’s Day in theВ Celtic calendar, but this has been questioned) with instructions for a mission I had not planned. This was going to the Revolutionary War cemetery at the Old Dutch Church down the street from my house and making my offerings there. In particular, it wasВ George Clinton, the first and longest serving governor of New York State and finally vice president of the United States, whose grave I needed to visit. Clinton also served as county clerk of Ulster County, where I live, a position he held for more than half a century during his long life of public service. He then served as vice president under two of our most venerated presidents, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison.
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I am not sure why I needed to contact him in particular, but I don’t question these things, and besides, he was coming through loud and clear. I collected some items from my altar (frankincense, charcoal, a cast iron incense burner). I was asked to bring a purple bandanna, so I took a nice faded one from my drawer. Then I drove around getting the few other items I would need, based on what I know about Days of the Dead tradition (mostly learned from my Planet Waves colleagues Paloma Todd and Jeanne Treadway).
Usually, you bring food and drink, and other offerings which can go as far as elaborate feasts held in the graveyard. Rum is a traditional offering in Latin culture; so is eggplant. The sweet vapor of rum, it is said, can penetrate between the worlds, and the spongy texture of eggplant is also able to be felt by those without bodies. The offerings are designed to bring the touch of physical life back to those who have left it, and to remind those of us who are living to appreciate the abundance and sensuality that we have available.В
The liquor store had a cigar shop attached to it, so I bought two hefty cigars (one for the governor, and one for myself at some point in the near future). I bought a few of those glass memorial candles and small Dixie cups for the rum, and while I was in that aisle, at long last I remembered to pick up aluminum foil for my kitchen.
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Then I headed to the cemetery at the end of my street in earnest, feeling the spirit of the men who were guided by a vision rather than by fear; by the urge to prosperity rather than greed; by the drive to overthrow tyranny rather than kiss its sorry ass; and who gave their lives to our liberty, profit and benefit. They could see the future in a way that we cannot; they could feel the future, and they were dedicated to something called the principles ofВ The Enlightenment. They could see, and were committed to, their lives in a way that completely eludes most Americans.
It was a warm autumn day, and the leaves were floating from the trees. Nobody else was in the cemetery for the purpose of visiting the dead; there were quite a few coming and going from the church on various errands. I set up an altar on Clinton’s marker, sparked up the frankincense and left the cigar for him. I was then directed to the back of the churchyard, where I found the grave of someone named Catharine Gardner, who died at age 32 in 1824. I set up an altar at her headstone using the purple bandanna, leaving an eggplant, plenty of rum and a cloud of frankincense pouring into the next world.
Living in Kingston, I feel like I am in the cradle of the American Revolution. Many places in New England could fit that description, but the feeling is palpable here like no place I’ve ever felt it; like there is some enormous crystal buried under the ground that is still transmitting information. I think my house is built on top of it sometimes, and I plan to make good use of it. The spirits of the original patriots and colonists seem to flood the sidewalks at times, and there are historic markers on many buildings and along the curbs of streets.
Their spirits are alive, if we will listen; their bravery, their endurance, their simple dedication to building the world, can be examples to us today, if we have the ears to listen. It is true that we need to build on their vision and expand it, but we also need to know where our foundation is rooted, and feel our existence resting there.
