In the lands where the ancient Celts thrived, October was the time of settling cold, final preparations for long winter, and the death of the old year. In the lands where some of their modern descendants eventually came, the leaves are turning gold, red, brown; the breezes are growing stronger and more chill; the sudden storms of summer are giving way to steady rainfall and in extremes, frost appears at the window. It is easy to see how traditions of the dying year can thrive in this environment.
In the lands where my ancestors came, the leaves remain on the trees; the long drought of summer is largely broken by storms, though the heat remains; there is no chance of frost until January. Maybe. My choice to honor this time of year as one of the memory of death and the meditation on the cycle of endings and beginnings may take a bit more effort to embrace, because the natural world around me seems to be alive, even thriving, after the extreme thirsty summer and the blessed new rains.
And yet, I choose to align myself with the patterns of the Celts because while externally my world isn’t preparing for a long sleep or death, internally, my own world is descending into the long dark-half of the year. It is the end of summer, samos.
Scél lemm duíb: (I have news for you:)
dordaid dam, (the stag bells,)
snigid gaim, (winter snows,)
ró-fáith sam. (summer is ended.)
Other pagan voices on Samhain:
Historically, Samhain is the end of the Celtic year. As the Celts reckoned their days from sundown to sundown, this night was also the beginning of the new year, and the time to celebrate the final harvest, and the Feast of the Dead. The spirits of the world, and the sidhe, were particularly active at this time of year, and on Samhain night, the risk of passing into the Otherworld was never more clear as the gates between the worlds are swung open for the night. Cattle were butchered in preparation for winter, seeds were planted to lie dormant until spring, and time itself flees from the world, opening the door to the future, the past, and standing outside of the rest of year.
For me, Samhain is all about memory, death, and walking between two worlds. The memory of the storyteller, as Samhain marks the beginning of “storyteller season”, when those holed up against winter would spin days-long stories around the fire. The death of the natural world, the death of friends and family, and the mythical death of gods (depending on what kind of myths you follow). The death of inner thought patterns, the reformation of bad habits, the death of relationships, wanted or not. The delicate balance between this world and the Other, and the thin veil that opens at Samhain to allow passage between both; the deadly, and ecstatic journey from one world to another. The fili, who straddles the line between at all times, is never more free, or more exposed.
Samhain is probably one of the more serious holidays I observe–certainly the most outrightly religious and ceremonial in tone, if not necessarily in actual practice.
As such, my solitary, contemplative Samhain observances often stand in stark contrast to other pagan celebrations, which also focus on the above, but mainly use the time to celebrate the last harvest before winter and the mighty dead with more social and fun observances. It goes without saying that my quiet, often emotionally charged interactions with the divine are on the absolute opposite end of the spectrum when compared to my secular friends’ celebrations of Halloween. To most of my friends, the spirit of fun, shedding of rules and donning of disguises and party atmosphere of Halloween is religion in and of itself, and anticipated far more than Christmas or even one’s birthday. I’ve never been able to fully embrace it, but can understand it.
I can approach this lighter side mainly in the almost-ritualistic way I participate in NaNoWriMo every year. At midnight tonight, the madness begins, and in true spirit of the season, I embark on spinning a days-long story of my own, with plenty of wild embellishments, unrealistic goals and anarchic structure, style and themes. Anticipating, and gleefully dreading, this time of creativity and rapid work is perhaps the closest I can come to feeling the spirit of Halloween that my friends feel, and as such, I am able to connect to this holiday in a celebratory way as well as a serious one.
As I attempt to write a ritual calendar for myself, I find myself unprepared and little at a loss for what I shall be doing this year. In past years, I have used this time to pour small libations of water to the beloved dead that have passed on this year: few people close to me have died this year, but relationships, viewpoints and assumptions have. I would also light a candle in the window for the dead to follow, and just to meditate on. Several years ago, I used this time to formally dedicate myself to the search for divinity.
Last year, and the years I was in Philly, I would take the time to write down things I wanted to “end”–bad habits, destructive “tapes” in my head, etc.–and walk to the graveyard in Old Pine Street Church where most of the headstones have no names, but a few still have tiny American flags stuck in the ground beside them. This is a special graveyard that has a kind of quiet magic about it–high walls and talls trees would muffle the sounds of the street, even as it was two feet away from traffic. I would be able meditate for a few moments even as the trick-or-treaters walking outside of the graveyard seemed miles away. I would rip the paper up and bury it, or, miming ripping it up, I would carry it home and burn it. Divination with tarot and ogam would often follow, as this time of year seems particularly potent for the kind of energy needed to interpret these tools.
Two years ago, I participated in the Celtic Reconstructionist I Stand With Tara ritual, which was an interesting and powerful experience, but a little too full-blown for me to recreate and recast in an annual way.
So, tonight, as I write and keep the flame with my other flamekeepers, I shall be actively meditating on what this time of year really means to me, and what I can do that embrace it and harmonize with it. What I can do to honor memory, death and the places between will depend largely on my own cycles reconciling with the cycles of the natural world (so often out of sync, particularly in Texas), and my spirit attempting to connect again with the spirits of the land, and the gods I honor and follow.
As I remember what it means to tell stories, and how all stories end in death, tonight I can allow my spirit to wander freely again with the other spirits of the world, and carry knowledge, truth and light as a wind between the worlds.
