Dia de los Muertos Altar for my Parents

Many trips to the desert southwest have helped me embrace the quiet culture and deep spirituality that is reflected in the celebration of Dia de las Muertos. A respect and celebration for the lives of loved ones past. It is felt, that on this day, the spirit of the deceased comes back to visit. Graves are decorated with flowers and food and there's a solemn joy that fills those that believe. This being the Catholic equivalent of the Feast of All Souls.

My Father died this past April. It was at sunrise on Easter morning that he left this earth. My father and I had a kindred love of Easter. When my Mom was dying he and I took part in a special yearly event at our church. He was a member of the Knights of Columbus, a Catholic organization replicating Christs' Apostles. Each member of this council agreed to one hour that they would pray in church during the 24 hours leading up to Easter morning. I asked if I could go with him. I was 15 at the time and I asked him to pick an hour it would be most difficult to stay awake, to make the practice more resemble what the Apostles did. We picked a very late hour and walked over to our church which was in our neighborhood. The cool quiet woke us and the silent meditation infused us both with what we knew lay ahead. It was later that year that my Mother lost her battle with breast cancer.

That Easter,for that one hour, was ours.
Ours in quiet contemplation.
For my Dad to die on this same day, 35 years later seems part of a long cast puzzle slowly unfolded.


I recreated this Day of the Dead altar from one I made a few years ago for my Mother. This year, after a long earthy divide, they are reunited. Surrounding the altar are love letters my Father wrote to my Mom while he was in the Marine Corp. Each on Marine Corp stationary, embossed with the Marine logo and ink pen he wrote daily. The written word kept them together.



No phone or faxes. No facebook, text messages or e-mail. I trimmed the edges to resemble the papel picado flags that are used in these types of celebrations.
On the altar I placed a photo of them on their wedding day, with a wood cut cherub floating above them. This is a Valentine for them.
Memories of my Father and his life at the Sheriffs Department mark the years he and my Mom were 'apart'.



On the day my Father's life was celebrated at his small Georgia church, a pair of large birds hung in air currents and glided past the floor to ceiling church windows. In the months that have passed, I have been comforted by the vision of birds overhead.
His soul is at rest and he is with my Mother and the angels overhead.


Rest in Peace Mom & Dad

Kenneth R. Swearingen - My Dad

October 1, 1931 - April 04, 2010

The night before Easter I was in my studio working when my husband Jon told me my Father was in the hospital. I froze as he filled me in on the details from my brothers call. He took ill very suddenly. I somehow imagined the worst. Maybe it was my minds way of preparing myself.
The following day, on Easter morning, my Father died.

I've become very quiet. Kind of weird for me. The weather that day was amazing. A gentle wind all day that seemed to give me peace. A perfect spring day followed by a night sky filled with stars. The handle of the big dipper arched across the sky and pointed directly to Polaris- the North Star - a sign of guidance and direction. In the days to come, I knew I would need that compass. I tried to stay busy. The wind gave me peace, I'm not sure why, but it did. In the quiet hours that followed I let myself feel the pain I'd been pushing away all day. I realized I was alive and my Dad had been gifted a beautiful day on which to go to heaven. For a spiritual man, dying on the day of Resurrection was a gift granted him from above, of that I am certain.

The days that followed were a frenzy of planning, packing, phone calls, airports, schedules and tears. When that subsides there comes a time when the quiet sets in. The flowers faded, the ceremony over, the immediacy of things - done. In that space, one goes over in their head all that's transpired. Fragments of thoughts and feelings that may stay forever ingrained in my head rewind and play over and over.

When my Mom died when I was 15. My clearest memory was of my Dad, my brother and I walking away from her grave site in the cold wet grass. A very alone feeling as we left behind the 'glue' of our family never to be hugged again.
A very alone feeling I have never forgotten. I hate wet grass.
There was no wind that day. Just wet grass and an empty feeling inside.
These recent images are clear now, but they too will eventually fade.
Some will stay I'm certain.
The way the air felt.
The way sunlight came pouring into the church.
The fragrance of all the flowers and incense mixed together.
The faces of friends and co-workers sharing their feelings.
The pain of 'what ifs' that surface in my head late at night when it's dark.
The peace of knowing my Mom and Dad are re-united.
The alone feeling over the loss of both of them.

I think my Father knew he was dying, but kept it to himself. The last secret he could keep was to accept his mortality on his own terms. He wrote his own obituary in the weeks prior to his death. His memorial Mass was just as he would have wanted it to be. The smell of the Easter lilies and other flowers filled the air. It was personal, solemn and ended with a Marine Corp Honor Guard. Nine shots fired into the cloudless sky. A United States flag was ceremonially folded and handed to my brother outside the metal roofed country church he attended. Under the portico, the breeze blew as we stood mesmerized by the careful, calculated gestures these dedicated older Veterans displayed.
I felt relieved Dad had the type of send off he would have wanted.

My Dad was 78 years old. He lived a good life. His death came unexpectedly to all of us. His parents lived well into their 90's and I figured he would too. He outlived two wives and left behind an older brother. He was fortunate to have found love more than once in his lifetime. Not all are so blessed.
At his funeral were people he worked with, his family, his 9 year old neighbor girl and his friends. One of them a young Marine named Ian in full dress uniform. He had befriended my Dad at the courthouse and in doing so found a mentor. His being there struck a cord in me. After he received communion at the altar, he placed his white gloved hand on the box containing my Fathers ashes. He too had lost a friend. So many people knew my Dad on levels so different than how I knew him. He had made his life in the mountains of Georgia and he'd made a difference in other people's lives.

I'm struggling with all that is hitting me. Over the years, I had a challenging relationship with my Dad, but we'd made peace and I knew he loved me. In his post office box were a tin of cookies I'd just sent. He never got them. In his last weeks I shared with him some personal issues I'm facing and he didn't pass judgement on me. That may have been his last real gift to me - the fact he didn't pass judgement. Never would I have guessed that would have been his legacy or in doing so it would mean so much to me.

When we visited my Dads home after the funeral, we found a wind chime hanging in his tree. His gardens were beginning to bloom and life was returning. My brother and I looked at where he'd lived out his final days and we both agreed, he's not there anymore. Ken carefully untied the wire holding the chimes in the tree. The white angel with the broken wing that was in his backyard will come live with us too- wherever we live, and in the wind we'll find peace.

I love you Dad.

♥