We
celebrated Samhain with a bang this year. We always do something, if
we're not away, but this year we did a fairly planned ritual, and
invited a bunch of good friends to join. We made poppets, and buried
ourselves in effigy to "lay to rest" a part of ourselves that no longer
served. My coven dressed in robes with eerie face paint to play spectres
of death, silently joining us on a winding path into the woods and our
spot there. We celebrated afterward with a feast of finger foods and
snacks. All in all, it was a lovely night. I feel like my focus was more
on "running" the ritual and keeping to my part, more so than
participating in the intent of the ritual, but that's OK with me. I
think of it as a worthy small sacrifice, that maybe this ritual was more
for others than for myself. It was a ton of fun and looked awesome, and
went off mostly hitch-free. Can't say fairer than that.
The
clocks went back Sunday morning (we observe DST here). The change is an
abrupt and jarring one, going from dusky in the morning when I leave
for work, to sunny (for now) and it is now dark when I leave. This means
I take the bus in the evening now rather than walk, which sadly robs me
of a good chunk of my physical activity every day. (My walk takes me
through a less than great neighbourhood. I won't travel it alone after
dark.)
The
change is a forced reminder that Samhain is the end of fall, that the
darkness we celebrate is not just death, not just the memory of those
who have gone before, but the coming months of dark with the turn of the
seasons.
I have a love/hate relationship with winter.
I
hate being cold, hate a runny nose and burning cheeks and everything
hurting for 20 minutes after I've come inside as blood returns to
chilled limbs. I hate dragging under the weight of boots and a heavy
coat. I hate getting on the bus the morning to go to work on a day to
supposed to storm, knowing I may get stranded, may not get home til 3
hours later than I should, knowing I should be home safe and warm. I
hate Christmas, a new development. I hate commercial Christmas. Carols
start playing here November 1, all the stores are already waving signs
in my face reminding me that my love is quantified by how much I spend
on my loved ones.
But
I love the pure silence and dark of a night where snow is falling,
glittering on the grass, under the streetlights. I love the crunch of
hardened snow under my boots. The clean white clinging to trees like
they've been glittered with diamonds. I love seeing new birds, birds
from the north seeking refuge where it's warmer, but not too warm. I
love feeling drawn in close to home and my chosen family, celebrating
with food and drink, honouring our heritage, our ancestors, and our
bonds with each other. I love being warm inside and watching the wind
howl and snow swirl outside.
I love hearing the earth stir in her sleep.
When
I was younger and my life was run by school time, the seasons seemed to
have less meaning than they do now. Summer meant freedom, as did
Christmas, winter meant the occasional snow day. Fall was the embodiment
of evil, the unwelcome return to drudgery and boredom. I had no
appreciation for the season itself and what it meant.
Maybe
it's something I'm growing into with age, or as I get closer to my
practice and spirituality. I feel the wheel turn, feel the earth in her
cycles and know in my heart that every time has a purpose, snotty
mittens and all.
