By: Maria Fernanda Osorio Arredondo, SFU Student
Grief is a universal language expressed differently by everyone. Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), despite being known for its colours and joy, acknowledges the heartbreak of losing someone. Honouring the memories of a deceased loved one has allowed me to understand that I’m hurt because I care — more than that, because I love. I don’t put the latter verb in the past because death doesn’t mean you stop loving. Author Jamie Anderson notes that “grief is just love with no place to go.” To me, Día de los Muertos is an opportunity to reconnect with this love, and marigolds are the pathway to that reconnection. The Aztecs believed that the powerful scent of cempasúchils (marigolds) is what guides your ancestors back to you during Día de los Muertos. The flowers’ aroma is key in dissolving the barrier between the world of the living and the dead.
My maternal grandmother had an unbelievable green thumb. She used to say that in order for your plants to thrive, you must have a kind soul. However, I once bought an air plant, which didn’t even need soil, and I still managed to kill it in record time.
Both my mom and I are terrible with plants, so for this Día de los Muertos, we decided to look for artificial flowers as an offering. As we looked at the selection in the dollar store, reveling in their realism, I was tempted to bow my head and discover their plastic fragrances.
My mom pointed to an orange flower and asked my thoughts. Before I could answer, a lady beside us quickly took the flower and left. I grimaced and asked, “Is there another?”
My mom searched briefly and cursed. I suggested we take a fall-coloured rose as a replacement. It might be cliché, but my favorite flowers are roses. I liked how these ones curled up on themselves, petals hugging petals in a hypnotizing spiral.
After baking pan de muerto (bread of the dead) and inundating the house in a sweet orange smell, my mom prepared the ofrenda, an altar to honour our deceased loved ones. On a wooden table, she put pumpkins of different sizes, autumn leaves, talavera skulls, papel picado banners, pan de muerto, photographs, and the flower we purchased. Traditionally, marigolds would adorn the ofrenda, but as a diaspora family, we sometimes need to improvise.
In Mexico, a legend says that marigolds were “miraculously gifted to the Nahua people by Tonatiuh, their sun god, so that they might honor their dead.” During Día de los Muertos, it is thought that marigolds “guide the spirits of the deceased back to the world of the living.” Similar to Día de los Muertos, marigolds are important in various Hindu festivals like Diwali and Navratri. They also play a central role in weddings and religious ceremonies. In India, marigolds are associated with “purity, auspiciousness, and the divine.” Symbolic of the sun’s energy, these flowers are believed to chase away negative auras and evil spirits.
Khushi, a close friend of mine, is the one who introduced me to the meaning of marigolds in India. We quickly bonded over our common backgrounds as older sisters who are passionate about art. Upon learning about our shared connections to the orange flower, we decided to nickname ourselves “marigold sisters.”
“Grow your colours, / marigold / Golden rays / Don’t you hideaway / Show your colours, / marigold.”
The lyrics above from Anusha Savi’s song “Marigold” represent how marigolds help us celebrate others and ourselves. Savi’s song, which Khushi shared with me last summer, made me realize how my love for marigolds is rooted in both collective cultural and individual experiences. Marigolds, even when impersonated by a plastic rose, have made me feel closer to people living and dead. There’s no need to say “they love me, they love me not” while plucking petals to feel loved around the vibrant and warm colors of the marigold.
