Flores de Mayo: Why May Smells Like Faith and Flowers
A look into how devotion, floral offerings, and community come together in this beloved Filipino May celebration.
It was the only time of year the church smelled like fresh sampaguita (local jasmine flower) and melted wax instead of just incense and electric fan dust.
If you’ve ever grown up in the Philippines, you know how we love a good reason to gather, decorate, and devote—ideally all at once. And May? This month is reserved for someone very special. It’s when the country collectively turns into a giant altar for the Virgin Mary, and every child within arm’s reach of a lace dress gets recruited into the sacred theatrics of Flores de Mayo. (If you ever dare to read that as “mayo” like mayonnaise, I will hose you with Holy Water.)
This wasn’t your average summer activity. This was a thing.
A Month for Mary
Flores de Mayo, literally “Flowers of May,” is a month-long devotion to Mama Mary. In towns big and small, children carry flowers in candlelit processions, offering them at the altar every evening as the community prays the rosary. It’s soft, fragrant, and deeply rooted in Filipino Catholic life.
It wasn’t just tradition—it was choreography. You’d see lines of little girls in white, boys with candles (trying not to burn their barong sleeves), and village aunties directing everything like stage managers of a very slow-moving religious musical.
The flowers were real. The feelings were, too.
Of Crowns, Kids, and Candle Wax
Some of us grew up being part of Flores de Mayo whether we wanted to or not. You’d get wrapped in a too-tight dress, handed a basket of petals, and told to walk slowly—but not too slowly. Some kids took it seriously. Others just wanted the snacks after.
But me? Growing up in a family with its own traditions, we didn’t quite like crowds. And I totally get it. If you were my mother and you had five children, you wouldn’t want to join the crowd with your kids, lest you lose one. Flores de Mayo, after all, is not a festival that condones offering your offspring. I digress. And so, we stayed home.
But the buildup? The final week of May? That was when the real pageantry happened. We knew of cousins and friends who were offered to represent the Blessed Virgin Mary in the festival. Even one of my sisters was offered, but my mother refused.
Let me explain.
Enter: Reyna Elena
Every Santacruzan needs a Reyna Elena—the crown jewel of the procession, the ultimate representation of grace, beauty, and Marian energy. Being chosen as Reyna Elena wasn’t just an honor. It was a local beauty standard stamp of approval. People remembered Reynas the way other towns remember mayors.
I remember knowing girls who got the role and were instantly legendary. Their dresses were beaded, their fans were pearled, and their escorts—well, let’s just say the Reyna was doing 90% of the visual heavy lifting. He was there, though. Walking one step behind, holding the umbrella, looking like someone’s shy cousin who got volunteered last-minute.
It was the only time I saw girls my age walk like queens and mean it.
It might be easy to get lost in the festivities of the country during this time. But the real meaning and reason behind the occasion is why we celebrate the Blessed Virgin in the first place.
A Country in Bloom
Beyond the gowns and glowing candles, Flores de Mayo carries something deeper. It’s a celebration of femininity, devotion, and beauty—as expressions of faith. It’s where the sacred meets the everyday: flowers from your lola’s garden, chants that lull you into prayer, titas handing out juice boxes after a solemn rosary.
Even if you didn’t fully understand why you were offering petals to a statue, you could feel the reverence in the air. And later in life, you realize—maybe that was the point. Not to explain it, but to feel it.
The Faith We Carry
I didn’t get to be Reyna Elena (shocking, I know), but I did walk down the aisle to offer flower baskets to the altar. I carried them heavy in my hands with a weird mix of pride and discomfort in my chest.
I didn’t always understand every part of it—the novenas, the hymns, the symbolism woven into each flower we offered. But I felt it. I felt something sacred every time I knelt in front of Mama Mary’s statue, flower petals in one hand, candle in the other.
As a child, I adored her. Not just as the mother of Jesus, but as our mother. Gentle, graceful, powerful in her silence. There was comfort in her presence, like she was listening even when I didn’t know what to say.
Flores de Mayo wasn’t just about honoring tradition—it was about honoring her. And for those of us who grew up loving Mary deeply, it was the most tender kind of offering we knew how to make.
And in a country as loud and fast and full of contradictions as the Philippines, there’s something quietly powerful about watching a whole town slow down to offer flowers to a mother.