For as long as I can remember, March has always represented transitions and traditions.
Having grown up in a small town in the Philippines, I remember this time of year as the school-ending season, when breezy days give way to hot summer spells, and the busyness of school slows down to those long, lazy, hazy days of doing not much.
“Doing not much” during Holy Week is an understatement. Our grandmother did not allow us to do anything: “The Lord is dead, be quiet!” she would admonish us.
The most exciting part of our day was watching the Father Peyton rosary series, which was a favorite of my brother and mine—not that we had a whole gamut of choices. It was either Father Peyton or somebody’s interpretation of Christ’s seven last words, which just did not resonate well with us. It was pre-Betamax time, unfortunately. Throughout the day, our neighbors would be belting out the Pabasa (the Filipino epic of Christ’s life, death and resurrection). When later I lived in the Middle East, the muezzin’s call to prayer always reminded me of the Pabasa.
When I moved to New York, for the first time in my existence life’s movements were marked by the changing of the seasons. Everything around was a reminder of the transitions as they happened: Trees shed leaves, the days got shorter, everything was covered in white powder, the cherry trees blossomed, the weather warmed up, and the nights got shorter. And the cycle repeated itself.
The message is clear: Life’s possibilities are limitless, and it is never too late for renewals.
March meant spring—time to clean out the clutter and make room for new things to grow after the fall’s shedding and the winter’s sleep. It is spring-cleaning time in this part of the world, as the weather gets warm enough to open the windows and let the winds carry the dust away. In Jerusalem, when I lived there, spring cleaning took on a religious and historical significance: The neighbors cleaned out the house from top to bottom in anticipation of Passover (in remembrance of the Israelis’ flight from Egypt), to make sure not even a scrap of leavened bread remained.
I had a chance to visit Valencia, Spain, this month, to celebrate Las Fallas. The tradition welcomes the arrival of the spring equinox, and it is said that it started centuries ago when Valencian artisans no longer needed wooden structures on which to hang their oil lamps during the winter season, and thus would send the structures up in flames as they honored Saint Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. These days, the structures are much more elaborate and are usually a social or political commentary. But the tradition of burning endures. There is something poetic in that idea—of planning for months and building these magnificent figures, which are truly works of art, and then, after only a few days, letting them collapse in their fiery demise.
We went to witness the event in the neighborhood where we stayed, and it was truly magnificent, with the fireworks exploding and the towering figures burning to the ground as the Valencian anthem blared loudly in every street corner. It was a time for the community to gather, cook paella valenciana on the street to feed neighbors and visitors, drink some rioja, and eat a lot of churros. Many of the locals were emotional: Tears flowed down their faces as they watched their beloved figures go down in flames. I remember wondering to myself what it tells of a society whose culture is highlighted by age-old violent traditions of burning, huge explosions, and bullfights.
Perhaps it is just a dramatic way of shedding this year’s follies, literally letting them burn to the ground—an act of redemption in many ways. In the Jewish tradition, Passover also means redemption, no different from the promise that Easter brings to Catholics and other Christians, which this year happens only a week after Las Fallas. No such thing as too much redemption, I suppose.
What is it with us humans and our love for rituals? Indeed, rituals are the centerpiece of all organized religions, with redemption the ultimate prize. Someone once said these rituals are our lifeline to the divine. Or perhaps they are nothing but the illusion of permanence, as Woody Allen once depicted in one of his movies.
Whatever their significance, it is comforting to me that rituals endure, and it doesn’t matter where you are. Traditions bring people together. Traditions allow people to tell one another, without being too sentimental about it, that they belong somewhere, no matter how far they have gone.
It is like your favorite homemade soup that you remember your grandmother making for you once a year. It brings you back home.
Joel Villaseca (joel@mindbootcamp.org) is a lawyer living in New York City.