I was not one of those little girls who was afraid of her own shadow. As a matter of fact, I was pretty fearless.
I suppose I realized this at a relatively early age due to the fact that I had a friend, Lisa who was terrified of everything.
The world was a dangerous and terrifying place to poor Lisa.
She was afraid of dogs, big or small. Even hot dogs.
She was afraid of loud construction equipment.
She was afraid of heights.
Luckily, we outgrow some of our childhood fears. I heard Lisa went on to be a rocket scientist. I’m serious. At like JPL or NASA! The biggest friady cat I’ve ever known is sending people out into the dark vacuum of space.
The irony of it makes me laugh. And there’s another reason for my nervous laughter. The only fear Lisa and I shared was our fear of the dark. Of ghosts grabbing our legs as we ran to our beds, and pulling us down into hell.
Our night-lights had night-lights.
At sleep-overs we woke each other up to stand watch for the boogie man while the other trembled in her eight-year-old skin, trying to pee in the dark. Have you ever tried to pee while terrified? It’s an acquired skill.
We bonded over our shared fear. We understood it. We investigated suspicious bumps in the night together. We checked under each other’s bed with flashlights. We checked and double checked the primo ghost hideout—the closet. We even turned our dolls around so their dead eyes wouldn’t spook us in the dark.
You wanna know something else ironic?
Here you have two little girls who were deathly afraid of ghosts and the dark — one sits people on a literal bomb and sends them out where no one can hear them scream, and one has conversations about death — with dead people.
That’s right. I don’t talk about it a lot, but I hear dead people. They talk to me. And I’m not scared. Isn’t that crazy?
I used to be. I used to be unwilling, uncooperative, confused and embarrassed but over time that changed.
Listen, if a ghost reached out from under my bed and grabbed my leg I’d most certainly lose my shit (and don’t think I haven’t warned them about that), but in general—I’m okay with the talking. It’s not spooky at all. I tell myself I’m performing a public service, I’m hearing all about how great it is to be dead and I’m writing about the subject (at their insistence).
One thing I know for sure: The dead people I’ve talked to are happy and witty and “better than fine.” They are interested in what’s happening with those they loved and for the most part they are feisty as hell. They are tired of being portrayed as spooks and ghouls—and don’t get them started on zombies!
In ancient Greece there was a name for those who were able to communicate with the ones who had passed—Walkers between the Worlds. Many cultures call them shamans. My friend Orna, who does a very advanced form of palm reading, grabbed my hand within an hour of meeting me and pronounced that I had “The mark of the shaman” just as she’d suspected.
So there’s that.
Walkers are able to straddle the realm where the deceased reside…and do laundry and grocery shopping and sit in traffic. It can screw with you—but it’s mostly wonderful. Hey, I’m not special. I’m told that if we want to, we can all do it.
So, on this Dia de Los Muertos, this Day of the Dead, I’d like to honor all of my disembodied friends. Once I allowed them, they have added immeasurably to my life. And removed forever any fear of death. And to my childhood friend Lisa, who, it seems, overcame at least one of her fears, and to all the brave souls she sends out into space. May they return safely.
And if by chance they do not, don’t you worry about them. They are better than fine.
Carry on,
xox
