I didn’t sleep last night. A certain little one kept me awake. And if it wasn’t her, it was my thoughts. This morning, feeling hung over from lack of sleep and stressed from lack of funds, I decided I needed to do something creative. I need to petition Santa Muerte. She helps outcasts from society, the poor, the LGBT community, criminals. It is interesting to me to see so many goddesses that help the outsiders, those who cannot make problems go away or be fixed by throwing money at it. Often we are the ones who don’t have a voice and we don’t have a choice. What is left to us is MAGIC. I sometimes think of it as a last resort, I need to think of it as my first choice.

I decided I would re sketch my Sante Muerte. I see her differently now than in my first drawing. Then I will begin painting. She has been on my mind all morning. As I’m about to jump in the shower, my 2 year old daughter hands me a little slip of paper. One of the papers on which I had written out all the names of my goddesses that I’ll be painting. She hands it to me and asks “Does this say I love you?” I looked down and laughed. No, it said “Santa Muerte.”

I was in the shower when I heard her. Sante Muerte. And I thought, maybe she loves me. I hoped so. I told her I was tired. She said it wasn’t over yet. I started crying and said “but I’m so tired!” She said “You’re stronger than you know.” I said that I didn’t want to be strong any more. I want things to be better and in my head I envisioned a beautiful home, a victorian greenhouse, all the luxuries that money can buy. She just looked at me. I said, “I want that”. She asked, “Do you?” ..I answered with a question,”Will I have it?” ..I heard a voice answer yes, but it wasn’t hers. It was mine. Wishful thinking maybe. I asked again and she looked at me and said “It’s undecided”. I felt taken aback and asked, “Who decides”. She looked at me with no emotion, her eyes staring right into my soul and said:

“You do.”

The next Goddess I will be painting is Sante Muerte. I see her all the time now, standing there, watching me, waiting. This is afterall, Her season. The season of death, the season of ancestors. There is always something more to learn. There are little deaths, there are literal deaths. The world is always dying. She is also giving birth. How will my labor be? What is it that I’m birthing? What has yet to die before I can be reborn? It’s happening already before the brush has hit the canvas. She’s calling… It’s time to die.