DÍA DE MUERTOS,
Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, México.
Una vez leí que perder el miedo a la muerte era comenzar a vivir. Suena cliché, como de revista de sala de espera, pero creo que tiene sentido. Algo pasó a nivel sociedad (mestiza, occidentalizada o colonialista) con nuestro entendimiento en relación a la muerte, lo pienso mucho estos días en que los medios nos muestran una pandemia cual si fuera una lenta avalancha de gente que nos deja. He leído y he visto a gente que prefiere no vivir con tal de no morir. Gente que sufre. Gente que tiene mucho miedo. ¿Miedo a qué exactamente? ¿A no saber qué pasa después? ¿A sentir dolor? ¿A dejar personas queridas? Imagino que hay muchas opciones, todas válidas. El punto es que todos vamos a morir, lo sabemos, pero por alguna razón en nuestra cultura no lo hacemos consciente, ni le brindamos tampoco la importancia a la veneración de aquello que es desconocido o poco luminoso. Ocultamos la oscuridad, queremos que no exista y así mismo queremos que no haya muerte, " que le pase a otros, no a mí, yo me voy a salvar de la muerte". Un dos de noviembre fui a la celebración del día de muertos en México, le pregunté a un amigo por algún lugar que fuera auténtico y especial. Así fue como terminé yendo a Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, un pueblo a varias horas en bus desde Ciudad de México donde existe una gran población autóctona. Celebran sus tradiciones, tratando de apegarse a cómo se hacían las cosas en la antigüedad, respetando su conexión con lo divino y con sus ancestros. En el lugar, caminando y preguntando, como lo hago usualmente, conocí a un "taxista" Purépecha, la etnia autóctona de esa región, conocía todos los panteones (cementerios) que había que visitar y tenía muchas ganas de acompañarme.
Estuvimos toda la noche escuchando "banda", cantado en Purépecha y dando una vuelta completa alrededor del lago, para recorrer cada panteón. En cada lugar que visitamos y durante casi toda la semana, las familias visitaban a sus muertos con su comida favorita, dormían con ellos, reían y festejaban como en una fiesta de vivos, sin miedo, sin tristeza. Con un sentimiento de nostalgia linda (saudade) de " ya nos vamos a encontrar cuando nos toque a nosotros". Un sentimiento de plena consciencia de que este estado actual, de que este plano material, es sólo un paso en la evolución del ser.
Once I read that losing the fear of death meant starting to live. It sounds cliché, like a waiting room magazine tip, but I think it makes sense. And deep down it makes a lot of sense. Something happened at the level of society (mestizo, westernized or colonialist) with our understanding in relation to death, I think about it a lot these last days that the media shows us a pandemic as if it were a slow avalanche of people who leave us. I have read and seen people who prefer not to live in order not to die. People who suffer. People who are very afraid. Afraid of what exactly? Afraid of Not knowing what happens next? To feel pain? To leave loved ones? I imagine there are many options. By the way, all valid. The point is that we are all going to die, we know it, but for some reason in our culture we do not make it conscious, nor do we give importance to the veneration of that which is unknown or without much light. We hide the darkness, we prefer that it does not exist and likewise we want there not to be a death, "that it happens to others, not to me, I am going to save myself from death." On November two, I went to the celebration of "Día de muertos" in Mexico, I asked a friend that lives in CDMX to recommend for some place that was authentic and special. And he described many places that might interest me. This is how I ended up going to Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, a town several hours by bus from Mexico City that has a large aboriginal population. They celebrate their traditions, trying to stick to how things were done in ancient times, respecting their connection with the divine and with their ancestors. In the place, walking around and asking questions, I met a Purépecha "taxi driver", the indigenous ethnic group of that region, who preserves the original language, in addition to Spanish. He knew all the "pantheons" (cemeteries) that had to be visited and he really wanted to join me.
We spent the whole night listening to "banda", sung in Purépecha and going around the lake, to visit each pantheon. In each place we visit, and not only that day but almost all week, families visited their dead with their favorite food, slept with them, laughed and celebrated as in a party of living people, without fear, without sadness. . With a feeling of cute nostalgia (saudade) of "we'll meet when it's our turn." A feeling of full awareness that this present state, that this physical plane, is only a step in the evolution of being.
Once I read that losing the fear of death meant starting to live. It sounds cliché, like a waiting room magazine tip, but I think it makes sense. And deep down it makes a lot of sense. Something happened at the level of society (mestizo, westernized or colonialist) with our understanding in relation to death, I think about it a lot these last days that the media shows us a pandemic as if it were a slow avalanche of people who leave us. I have read and seen people who prefer not to live in order not to die. People who suffer. People who are very afraid. Afraid of what exactly? Afraid of Not knowing what happens next? To feel pain? To leave loved ones? I imagine there are many options. By the way, all valid. The point is that we are all going to die, we know it, but for some reason in our culture we do not make it conscious, nor do we give importance to the veneration of that which is unknown or without much light. We hide the darkness, we prefer that it does not exist and likewise we want there not to be a death, "that it happens to others, not to me, I am going to save myself from death." On November two, I went to the celebration of "Día de muertos" in Mexico, I asked a friend that lives in CDMX to recommend for some place that was authentic and special. And he described many places that might interest me. This is how I ended up going to Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, a town several hours by bus from Mexico City that has a large aboriginal population. They celebrate their traditions, trying to stick to how things were done in ancient times, respecting their connection with the divine and with their ancestors. In the place, walking around and asking questions, I met a Purépecha "taxi driver", the indigenous ethnic group of that region, who preserves the original language, in addition to Spanish. He knew all the "pantheons" (cemeteries) that had to be visited and he really wanted to join me.
We spent the whole night listening to "banda", sung in Purépecha and going around the lake, to visit each pantheon. In each place we visit, and not only that day but almost all week, families visited their dead with their favorite food, slept with them, laughed and celebrated as in a party of living people, without fear, without sadness. . With a feeling of cute nostalgia (saudade) of "we'll meet when it's our turn." A feeling of full awareness that this present state, that this physical plane, is only a step in the evolution of being.
