One of my favorite Mexican traditions is the celebration of Palm Sunday. Each year San Blas artisans weave a variety of Christian symbols woven from palm fronds and grasses and sell them in front of the church. Some of the weavings are embellished with glitter and plastic flowers, or sprays of chamomile and rosemary. Beyond the bling the weavings are delicate and beautiful.  People gather to have their palms blessed by the priest’s holy water and make a procession into the church singing: “Bendito el que viene en nombre del Senior. Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna!” Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord…

I’ve been collecting this woven art-of-palms for years. I have some that are 6 years old. They start off green in color and smell and age into a pale gold. I display them against the wall above our bed as an altar to joy and art. As they collect dust I take them outside and give them a good wave, cleaning them in the wind, mind-full of the cycle of time when they were part of a living palm tree, cut for a short celebration of hosannas and now in my hand, on my wall, a lasting memorial. 

I am easily transported into the story described in Matthew of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on an ass, for I live in a land of palm trees and donkeys and sun-baked folks praying for some relief, longing for an extra-ordinary meaning to life.