For me, experiencing Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) was more than soaking up the local culture. It was very personal. I celebrated, anonymously and privately, the life of my daughter, Lisa, who left this world nine years ago in October.

Every year, as the season turned from summer to fall, I would begin to dread the looming anniversary, so I decided some years ago to travel and do what I always do in cities - wander. And dance. Since my daughter also loved to dance, I carried her memory with me when I did did the tango in the milongas of Buenos Aires, Argentina, and took flamenco classes in the caves of Grenada, Spain.

Last year, I went one step further and, in addition to studying Spanish and salsa in Oaxaca, honored my daughter by observing and participating in one of its most exciting and famous fiestas.

The belief is that there is no death, only a change of worlds. So this is not a sad time - it is joyful. There are parties, parades, and graveside picnics with favorite foods and music during this festival on Nov. 1 and 2.

I wandered around the city from altar to altar and got swept up in a street parade with feathered dancers. That kind of thing happens often in Oaxaca.

Huge crowds moved through the street fair, where in little makeshift kitchens, I tasted some incredible, home-cooked Mexican food.

Luckily for me, my apartment was steps away from the main cemetery, the Pantéon General. People moved slowly around its walled perimeter and gathered at the community-created altars. Some altars had political or cultural themes or were assembled by a group, such as chefs or schoolchildren. A particularly poignant one remembered women who had died at the hands of abusers. Bread loaves of different sizes represented the victims.

At night, the cemetery was magical, illuminated only by moonlight and candlelight, as it must have been more than 500 years ago. Shadows danced on the walls and obscured the paths to the graves. I was sure that if a soul could, it would find a way to join its family picnic, which went on well into the night.

But for me, even better than the night was one afternoon near sunset, when the cemetery glowed like a golden halo - orange and yellow marigold altars everywhere. I had decided to bring my own picnic - a crunchy tostado with meat, cheese and salsa.

As I walked and ate, I silently toasted Lisa and prayed: "I hope you're dancing."

Truth is, I know she is.