Ritual offerings represent portals that bridge the material with the metaphysical, breaching linear ideas of space-time by creating a dialogue with manifold unseen, more-than-human sentiences.
I spent the past 5 years of my life making home and creating sanctuary in San Miguel de Allende, a dreamy little town in the central highlands of Mexico. San Miguel has a reputation for being a big tourist destination, with its charming cobblestone streets and its picturesque colonial architecture. A place that I might have choicefully avoided due to preconceived stereotypes about other such places where people flock in great numbers, but there was something magnetic about it, something that drew me in—I simply fell in love.
My heart cracked open with the purple bloom of spring’s jacarandas, the intoxicating nectar of flowering huizaches in the sparseness of the desert, the specialised songs of street vendors outside my window on any ordinary day, the shuffling of mangey street dogs up to no good, the kind-eyed Doñas in the street who would smile at me with a knowing gaze, the slow, intimate pulse of small-town existence. One of my favourite times of year in San Miguel, and Mexico more generally, is early November, when Día de Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is celebrated.
Día de Muertos is a tradition celebrated throughout Mexico, typically from October 31 to November 2, that involves gathering to pay respects and honour beloved friends, family, and even more-than-human kin, who have passed away. A tradition that survived the Spanish imposition of Catholicism and colonial conquest of Mexico, it is thought that the Day of the Dead might date as far back as the Aztecs.
The tradition is deeply intertwined with the cultural practice of ofrenda, consisting of building altars made of offerings to honour the departed relatives and loved ones. Such altars or ofrendas invoke the deceased persons’ presence by displaying photos of them, alongside the images of various saints, and figures of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Strewn with candles, calaveras (candied skulls), and cempasúchil (marigolds) whose smell helps guide the dead to the ofrenda, such altars are built in homes, cemeteries, and outside of churches.
Food such as a sweet bread known as pan de muerto, fruit, and precious little alfeñiques (sugar art) that depict miniature plates of the dead’s favourite meals as well as cigarettes and alcohol for those who enjoyed it, are placed to create a welcoming atmosphere to invite the dead home and to replenish them after their long journey. Such components come together to represent the four elements, including candles (fire), papel picado (air), food (earth), and glasses of water.
Western, industrialised cultures are largely dominated by reductive materialist ontologies. For those who may feel overwhelmed by philosophy, reductive materialism is encapsulated by the idea that things can only be explained in terms of material phenomena (e.g. atoms, molecules, synapses, etc.). It is the view that the material world (matter) is the only truly real thing, and that all happenings and processes can be explained by reducing them down to their most basic scientific components.
This tradition, and the larger cultural practice of ofrenda, represent a rupture in the materialist reductionist paradigm that dominates Western culture, inviting a porousness that cracks open the divide between physical reality and invisible, immaterial worlds. To make an offering to the dead in this way is to create a portal that bridges the material with the metaphysical. It is an act that serves to breach linear, colonial ideas of space-time through using our human agency to create a dialogue with the manifold unseen, more-than-human sentiences that too govern this world.
Offerings have long been an integral part of spiritual life across cultures and time, spanning from the Hindu puja ceremony to Andea ch’alla thanksgiving rites to Balinese tradition of canang sari, with the oldest known ritual offering dating back 70,000 years. An offering is something that you give to someone, the term often used synonymously with the word “gift”.
Cross-culturally, offerings take many forms and may consist of tobacco, flowers, incense, rice, tea, ritual chants, candlelights, animal sacrifice as well as bodily sacrifice through practices such as fasting and attending sweat lodges. As anthropologist and writer, Wade Davis, has pointed out in many a talk, the term “sacrifice” derives from the Latin, sacer meaning “sacred” and facere “to make or to do.” Thus, to sacrifice or offer something is to make it sacred.
Although peoples of different cultures make offerings for different reasons, from practising reverence for and communion with one’s ancestors, wisdom holders and deities to honouring and expressing gratitude for more-than-human presences, offerings represent a tangible reciprocal gesture between ourselves and the unseen.
To make a ritual offering is to recognise that we are entangled in a world where matter is delicately interwoven with more-than-human potencies. Instead of simply taking and consuming (as most of us are accustomed to doing in capitalist societies), the act of ofrenda represents an exchange with the Other, allowing for the expression of gratitude in a tangible way.
Harvesting serviceberries alongside birds, Potawatomi author and botanist, Robin Wall Kimmerer explores the ethic of reciprocity that lies at the heart of many Indigenous cultures, reflecting upon the role gratitude plays in our exchanges with nature.
She writes, “Gratitude is so much more than a polite ‘thank you.’ It is the thread that connects us in a deep relationship, simultaneously physical and spiritual, as our bodies are fed and spirits nourished by the sense of belonging, which is the most vital of foods.”
After gratitude comes reciprocity, according to Kimmerer. Wanting to give a gift in return for nature’s generosity and the overflowing abundance of serviceberries, she questions what she could possibly offer in return. “It could be a direct response, like weeding or water or a song of thanks that sends appreciation out on the wind. Or indirect, like donating to my local land trust so that more habitat for the gift givers will be saved, or making art that invites others into the web of reciprocity.”
Often, when thinking about restoring balance in the human relationship with nature, we hone in on solutions that centre measurable actions like divesting from fossil fuels and reducing carbon emissions, forgetting about the vast plurality of unseen forces that govern our world. To embrace the ontology of ofrenda is to understand that small, ritual gestures of gratitude and reciprocity can also serve to change the shape of the realities that we inhabit.
Originally posted on Foraged Wisdom
