Little Joy Letter No. 8
Happy Sunday evening, Readers!
Yes, evening. Not morning. I am well aware this letter is arriving a little later than usual, but I have a perfectly reasonable excuse.
I threw a Halloween party yesterday.
And not just any Halloween party. A Gothic Wonderland Halloween party, complete with elaborate decorations, wonderfully strange characters, incredible vendors, and a house full of people I adore.
The weather was spectacular. The decorations came together beautifully. And somewhere between chatting with friends, admiring costumes, and taking in the delightfully bizarre world we'd created, I found myself feeling incredibly grateful.
Not just because the party was a success, but because I have so many people in my life worth celebrating with.
Today, however, was a different story.
Today was cleanup day.
The decorations are down. Wonderland has been dismantled. The witches, skeletons, and other questionable characters have been packed away until next year.
And before I tackled that rather daunting task, I decided I deserved a little treat.
I watched Coco.
You see, today is Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, a holiday that has fascinated me since I was a little girl.
I remember learning about it in elementary school and being completely captivated by the celebration itself.
The colors! The flowers! The food! The elaborate ofrendas filled with photographs, candles, and meaningful objects. The artistry of it all.
Here was a holiday centered around death that wasn't simply about sadness. Instead, families gathered, stories were shared, favorite foods were prepared, and beautiful spaces were created to welcome the memories, and according to tradition, the spirits, of loved ones who had died.
I thought that was extraordinary.
I still do.
Now, I should probably explain that I've become a rather enthusiastic Halloween person in recent years.
I love the imagination of it all. The costumes, the oddities, the witches, vampires, and zombies. Especially the zombies. Give me a good zombie movie, and I'm a happy camper.
I love the season itself, too. The leaves changing colors, the darker evenings, the smell of fire pits, football games, oversized sweatshirts, and pumpkins appearing on every available surface.
And, for me, Halloween officially kicks off the holiday season. Once October 31 arrives, it feels like we're in a full sprint toward the New Year.
But I think the biggest reason I've fallen in love with Halloween is that it gives me an excuse to celebrate.
An excuse to imagine something ridiculous, pick a theme, transform my home, dress up, and bring together people I love.
In fact, my very first official Halloween party was Día de los Muertos themed.
Looking back, that seems rather fitting.
Because while Halloween and Día de los Muertos are two very different celebrations, I've always been fascinated by their contrasting relationships with death.
Halloween gives us the frightening version.
The dead return to haunt us, chase us, hunt us, possess us, or, depending on the movie, eat our brains.
It's an entire holiday built, at least in part, around playing with the things that scare us. And death, understandably, is pretty high on that list.
But then November 1 arrives, and Día de los Muertos offers us a very different way to imagine the dead returning.
What if, instead of running away, we welcomed them home?
What if we prepared their favorite foods, displayed their photographs, told their stories, and celebrated the fact that they were once here?
What if remembering could be joyful?
I find that idea incredibly beautiful.
And perhaps that's why, in recent years, I've developed my own little November 1 tradition.
I watch Coco.
Yes, the Disney-Pixar movie. Yes, it makes me emotional. And yes, I will absolutely watch it again next year.
But beyond the animation, the music, and the spectacular visuals, what I love most is its exploration of memory.
The idea that remembering someone matters.
That telling their stories matters.
That saying their names matters.
Every year when I watch it, I find myself thinking about the people I've lost along the way. My grandparents. Former colleagues. People who were once part of my everyday world and whose absence I still notice in unexpected ways.
Sometimes I quietly say their names.
Sometimes I remember a particular moment, a conversation, or something wonderfully ridiculous about them.
And what I feel most isn't necessarily sadness.
It's nostalgia.
That strange, bittersweet feeling of remembering a person, a place, or a moment you can't quite return to. Of being grateful something happened at all, even while wishing you could experience it just one more time.
I don't know exactly what happens when we die.
Blake and I certainly have different perspectives on the possibility of an afterlife. He's a bit more skeptical. I'm a bit more willing to entertain the idea that maybe there's something beyond what we understand.
And really, wouldn't it be lovely if there were?
If, somehow, the people we've loved could stop by for a visit? If we could share one more meal, hear one more laugh, or have one more completely ordinary conversation?
I don't pretend to know.
But I do know that remembering people keeps something of them present in our lives.
And that brings me back to last night.
Standing in the middle of our Gothic Wonderland, surrounded by friends, laughter, costumes, food, and all the imaginative nonsense I could possibly dream up, I kept thinking about how fortunate I am.
Fortunate to have people who show up.
People who laugh with me.
People who are willing to put on ridiculous costumes and spend a Saturday evening celebrating simply because I asked them to.
What a gift that is.
And today, as I watched Coco before dismantling Wonderland, I spent a little time thinking about people who aren't here to celebrate with me anymore.
The two experiences felt connected in a way I hadn't really considered before.
Last night, I celebrated the people who are part of my life today.
Today, I remembered the people who were part of my life before.
Both felt like acts of love.
Maybe that's what I've always found so beautiful about Día de los Muertos. It's not simply the belief that the dead return, although I do find that possibility enchanting.
It's the intention behind the celebration.
The decision to make space for someone.
To prepare a meal, tell a story, display a photograph, light a candle, or simply say a name.
To remember someone not only because they're gone, but because they were here.
The decorations are all packed away now. Halloween is officially over at my house. And tomorrow, we will start seeing Christmas trees pop up everywhere.
But I'm sitting here tonight thinking about the people who have gathered around my table over the years.
Some are still here.
Some aren't.
And all of them have left something behind.
Perhaps that's a beautiful kind of haunting.
So, Readers, here's what I'm wondering this week:
Who are the people you're grateful to have gathered around you? And who are the people you wish you could welcome back to the table, even for just one more evening?
Maybe this week, we can make a little room for both.
Until next Sunday,
Joy
The Little Joys of Art