Where does Día de Muertos come from?

Long before the Spanish arrived, the Mexica honored their dead in ceremonies woven through the calendar. Two festivals in late summer, often called the Little Feast of the Dead and the Great Feast of the Dead, were dedicated to those who had died. Offerings of food, flowers, and incense were made so that the dead would be remembered and nourished on their journey. In Mexica understanding, most of the dead traveled to Mictlan, the realm of the dead, a long journey through several levels that took years to complete. The living could help them along the way. A small dog, the xoloitzcuintli, was said to help guide souls across a river on that road. When the Catholic church brought All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day on November 1 and 2, the old ways of honoring the dead did not vanish. They moved to meet the new calendar. What we call Día de Muertos today grew from that meeting. In 2008, UNESCO recognized the Indigenous festivity dedicated to the dead as part of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

Why do we set a place for the dead?

In our traditions, the dead are not gone. They are ancestors, and ancestors are relatives. The ofrenda is a way of saying: we remember you, we have not forgotten your name, come home and rest with us. It is hospitality extended across the thinnest of veils.

What goes on an ofrenda, and what does each element mean?

Every family's ofrenda is its own, but many share these elements: - Of those being remembered, so they know they are welcome. - For the thirst of a long journey. - The marigold. Its name comes from the Nahuatl cempohualxochitl, often translated as "twenty flower" for its many petals. Its bright color and strong scent are said to guide the way home. - A light to find home by. - Whose smoke carries prayer and cleanses the space. - For purification. - The bread of the dead. - Because love is specific. A favorite dish, a certain brand of soda, a cup of coffee made the way they liked it. - Cut paper that moves with the wind, a reminder of how fragile and beautiful life is. - A hat, a rosary, a deck of cards, a tool they used every day. Some families build their ofrenda in levels, representing the layers between earth and the world beyond. Others keep it simple on a single table. There is no one correct form.

What if you were cut off from your traditions?

Many people reading this were never taught. Families migrated. Languages were lost. Some were told to leave the old ways behind so they could belong somewhere new. If that is your story, hear this: you do not need permission to love your ancestors. A glass of water, a candle, a photograph, and their name spoken aloud is already an ofrenda.

What if you do not know their names?

Set a place anyway. Say: for those who came before me, whose names I do not know. The ofrenda is not a test of how much you remember. It is an act of relationship. They know your name.

Can someone who is not Mexican make an ofrenda?

Every person has ancestors. Honoring your own is a human act. If you build an ofrenda, do it with respect for the people this practice comes from, and let it be for your own dead, spoken in your own words.

The Plática: Why Healing Begins With Conversation

Louise Bremen

Nov 7

3 min read

Two men sit on yoga mats outdoors by rocky cliffs at sunset, talking calmly; text reads The Platica: Why Healing Begins With Conversation

People who have never received traditional healing often imagine it begins with something dramatic: smoke, drums, a trance. In most curandera traditions, it begins with something much quieter. Two people sit down together. One speaks. The other listens. This is the plática.

What is a plática?

Plática is Spanish for a talk or a chat. In curanderismo, the word carries more weight. A plática is a heart to heart conversation, sometimes called a heart talk, in which the person shares what they are carrying and the healer listens with full attention. It is not small talk before the real work. It is part of the real work.

Through the plática, the healer learns not only what hurts, but when it began, what surrounds it, who else is involved, and what the person hopes for. In traditional understanding, you cannot heal someone you have not first heard.

A couple sits face to face on grass at sunset, talking in a warm, backlit meadow with backpacks nearby.

Where does the plática come from?

The Nahua peoples placed enormous value on the spoken word. They preserved a body of teachings called huehuetlahtolli, "the words of the elders" or "the ancient word." These were formal speeches given by parents to children, by elders to young people, by rulers to their people. They taught how to live well, how to carry oneself with dignity, how to face sorrow and joy. Friars in the 1500s, including Andrés de Olmos and Bernardino de Sahagún, recorded many of them from Nahua speakers.

The huehuetlahtolli show a culture that understood speech as a way of shaping a person. The Nahua described an educated, whole person as having in ixtli in yollotl, "a face and a heart": a clear presence in the world and a strong center within. Much of that formation happened through words spoken carefully and received with respect.

The plática carries this inheritance. Words are not just information. Spoken with care, they are medicine.

Why is listening considered healing?

Two women in hijabs walk and talk on a tree-lined park path, one holding a cup, with lampposts and lush green trees.

Many people carry things they have never said out loud. Some have tried and been interrupted, corrected, or rushed. The plática offers something rare: time, attention, and no judgment. Often, simply hearing yourself describe what you carry changes how it feels. A weight that was shapeless becomes something you can name. And what can be named can be tended.

In the tradition, the healer also listens beneath the words: to the tone of voice, to the pauses, to what the person returns to again and again. The plática guides everything that follows.

What does a session in this tradition look like from beginning to end?

Traditional sessions often follow a shape that can be described in three movements:

Talk

The plática: what brought you here, what you hope to release, what you want to carry forward.

SIT

The work itself, which may include prayer, song, drum, rattle, copal, flowers, water, and silence. Silence often does more than people expect.

WALK

A closing conversation on the ground: what you noticed, what to carry with you, and what to do in the days that follow. In these traditions, healing lives in the days after the ceremony, not only inside it.

What should someone expect to feel?

Woman in a sunlit grassy field adjusts her hair, wrapped in a beige shawl, with a warm golden sunset glow.

Experiences vary from person to person. Some feel lighter. Some feel emotions move through them. Some feel quiet and tired. Some notice little in the moment and more in the days after. No particular experience is the right one, and no specific outcome is promised.

A few simple preparations have long been recommended: wear comfortable clothes, drink water, eat lightly beforehand, and leave yourself a soft half hour afterward rather than rushing back into traffic or meetings. And come as you are. Skepticism is welcome. Sincerity is enough.

The plática reminds us of something easy to forget: before anyone can help us carry a weight, someone has to be willing to hear what it is.