Today is the Day of The Dead. Seems like it would be a rather morbid affair, this holiday, but no; the cultures that celebrate El Dia de Los Muertos honor the lives of the deceased, and reaffirm the notion that death is not the end, but the beginning of a new stage of life.
The day of the living. That I can dig, especially after the past couple of weeks. The fires, of course; there’s still a faint smell of smoke in the air, and the sunsets remain perversely beautiful. The week of the dead, in a sense; we’ve all been walking around in a daze, like the decaying stars of George Romero’s zombie movies. But even before the fires, I felt like I was in some sort of Purgatory. My current job is a nightmare; everything that I abhor about Corporate America is manifested there – incompetant, callous managers, and miserable employees who stumble through their work day, eyes downcast, too dejected to even quit. It’s Dunder-Mifflin, only not funny, and I realized that I’m spending about 8 hours a day too many there; being around such detached, miserable people tends to chip away at you.
But one can’t be a parent and a cynic.
The timing was impeccable. A birthday, on this day that many spend celebrating lives lived and the life to come. Seems perfect. A name – Zoe – that we immediately chose upon learning that she was, in fact, a she, a name that we later learned means “life” in Greek. Our daughter, our little Life, born today.