The great seasonal wheel turns to the cardinal festival of Samhain,
Marking both the end and the simultaneous beginning of nature's year.
This is the time of darkness,
Of slowing down,
Of resting.
It is a period for deep sleeping,
Entering spans of torpor and dormancy alongside the earth,
Trees and creatures.
Samhain is winter's gate.
Once it has closed behind us,
The night will take us back.
It is the culmination of the third harvest and the final descent into the year's deep slumber.
It marks a transition from the watery and emotional depths of autumn to the solidity and steadfast groundedness of the earth.
The word Samhain might be related to an old root meaning,
To quiet down,
Become silent,
Or to simmer.
Images of decay and disintegration are everywhere in nature,
From mushrooms breaking down mossy logs to trees shedding their leaves completely,
And these all naturally pull at our psyches,
Evoking thoughts of death in our minds and hearts.
This is the most likely time for the black dog of melancholy to lift up its head and bark,
For fears to lurk and our inner demons surface.
The diminishing light,
The drawing in of the nights,
And the clocks going back an extra hour all add to this intensification.
If we use the constant glow of television screens in an attempt to overcompensate,
Our systems become significantly out of balance.
This is the natural time to shed the outgrown,
To welcome death not as an end but as a transition,
To embrace the grief that is a precursor to regeneration and to honour our dead loved ones.
Through the element of earth we can ground ourselves in a reality that isn't terrifying and express the natural sadness of our hearts in a way that doesn't become emotionally saturating and exhausting to our nervous system,
Thus avoiding long-term problems.
Our ancestors understood this profound shift and had rituals and ceremonies to mark this time.
They knew in their earthy wisdom that if this period is embraced in a ritual and ceremonial and communal way,
It holds immense potential for transformation and healing.
It can release griefs long buried and help with cultivating a resilient,
Healthy attitude towards death,
Transforming fear into understanding and acceptance.
The profound acknowledgement of death resonates across cultures all over the world like Mexico's vibrant Dia de Muertos,
Day of the Dead,
Where families create elaborate altars adorned with marigolds,
Favourite foods and photos to welcome the spirits of loved ones.
It's a joyous celebration of life and memory,
A beautiful counterpoint to the sombre reflection that Samhain can inspire,
Yet born from a similar reverence for those who have passed.
The archetype of the ancient elder,
The grandmother,
The crone or spider woman who weaves the world into being is a powerful symbol of this time.
It echoes in traditions like the Greek Ware,
Bates or the Norse Norns,
Ancient female figures who spin,
Measure and cut the thread of human life.
If we can create time and space for ourselves,
We can use the slowing down and darkness of winter to sink ourselves into an even deeper reality through meditation and other spiritual practices that can directly show us that the death of the body does not extinguish consciousness itself.
We are eternally stitched into the fabric of the universe,
We are one current of energy,
One river of goodness which flows on forever,
Endlessly changing form,
Endlessly renewing itself.
Whilst in modern times Samhain has largely evolved into the fixed celebration of Halloween on October the 31st,
Our ancestors would have recognised that all endings and beginnings happen in the deepest darkness,
Just like a seed is planted in the dark fertile earth.
Our Celtic ancestors even began their day in the evening rather than the morning and so it was most likely observed during the new moon dark,
The deepest psychological darkness of the natural year,
A time of profound inner reflection as opposed to the deepest physical darkness which takes place at midwinter on the shortest day and longest night.
To honour Samhain,
One of the things I always enjoy doing is going out into the woods next to my cottage to find an old branch that looks like a tree root to bring into the house.
I decorate it with photos of my family members from distant and far past and pets too who have died much like making an embodied ancestor tree.
The following poem is a collage of impressions of Samhain and Halloween which might inspire you to write your own or try some of the ideas it contains.
Poem.
This is the time of the deepest inn,
The darkest moon,
The fertile void,
The waiting womb.
This is the time when silence roots,
Trees unleaf,
The land is stripped back to bone.
Bone fires on hills,
Wood smoke at dusk,
Wet leaves in layers stuck to our boots,
The spider,
The web,
The bread of the dead,
Turnip soup in turnip bowls,
A purple candle in a heavy hung window for our beloved dead returning home.
This is the time of the rattled rook,
The exposed root,
The vulnerable wound.
This is the time to be soft with our hearts,
Protect our scars,
Gathering close to the welcoming hearth.
This is the night of the seeping in,
The absent moon,
The starkest truth,
A death too soon.
This is the night of the waiting space,
The final release,
The heart's grief,
The heart's relief.
This is the time of the slow decay,
Rotting leaves on a cherished grave.
This is the night of the shore left behind,
The burial tomb,
The ancestral mound.
This is the night when we vigil with just a husk of light.
This is the night of the steady beat on the handheld drum,
Our faithful dead returning home.
This is the night to respect things unseen,
Halloween,
The time in between,
When nothing's as it seems,
Cats on brooms,
Witches on roofs,
Ghosties dancing,
Apples bobbing,
Guising,
Scrumping.
This is the night of the dark way home,
The shroud,
The cowl,
The full length coat.
This is the night,
The night hag rides.
This is the night of the labyrinthine dream,
Thrashing winds,
Loosened slates,
Slates wiped clean.
This is the night we become giants in our lengthened shadows and dream new legends for our lives.
This is the night of the hermit in the tarot,
Deepest trances,
Wise questions,
Unexpected answers.
This is the night to stop stirring the cauldron,
Untie from the loom,
Let the pattern be lost.
This is the night when they come again and we welcome them in,
Old friends,
Ancestors,
Kin.
This is the night to slow,
To stone,
To speak the truth as hollow bone.
This is the night when the veil is thin and a wolf must die in our own skin.
