Everything is in constant flux and movement. Nothing is abiding. Therefore we cannot step twice in the same river. When I step in the river for the second time, neither I nor the river are the same.
--Heraclitis (540-480 BC)
I have Heraclitis in mind today. As similar as things seem, they are in constant change, nothing remains the same. That comment marks the end of my tenth year of writing in this space for The Celtic Connection and the beginning of my eleventh Samhain article. As the great festival of Samhain and year end approaches, I cannot help but reflect on thoughts I wrote of years ago and which have deepened for me with the passing years.
The recollection of a decade usually conjures a recitation of relationships, jobs and travels begun and concluded. But what of the inner path, the spaces wandered, the dust gathered, the fragments of enlightenment that truly steer a life? It is those moments, tempered by time, that give us the clearest distillation of the energy we have spent.
The melancholy of autumn drifts through me. The eternal texture of seasonal moments never fails to arrest my attention. The tide of the season of Samhain rises and shifts in the dappled sunlight that filters through partially bare branches. On October 31, the weakening sunlight will give way to fire.
I have written much of bonfires, but now I evoke a burning river of fire that roars in the rich darkness of our bodies to answer the leaping flames of the hilltop. The shriek of the black crone, the Cailleach, no longer disturbs me; I raise my own voice in her fractured song. Merciless, she consumes even the strongest heart in her winter season. Yet she throbs with life, and the blood and lust that spill from her billowing cloak fuels the ecstatic dance as we spiral like leaves into the October gale.
The gloaming beckons beyond the Samhain fire. The further from the light, the deeper the flickering shadows in my mind. Frequent readers of this column find me a firm advocate of the process of psychic dissolution. With time and the slipping seasons comes the progressive stripping away, the withdrawal of luminous projections from loved ones and things. With the retreat of those precious projections comes the stark realization that people are simply people, situations are what they are. At this point in life, at a crossroads, one faces a choice of turning toward the path of brilliant darkness, where the richest revelries, the highest wisdom and the greatest love is found within oneself or taking the path of least resistance, of living one’s life in quiet desperation. Tis’ the season.
It is Oidche Shamhna, the night of Samhain and the veil parts between worlds. From the Otherworld streams a ghostly cavalcade, the spirits of ancestors and friends long passed. It is for them that this night is called the "Festival of the Dead," and for them we lay out the feile na marbh. A small bit of supper, a favorite chair pulled to, a photograph, a memory called to mind. An act of kindness for those unseen, a goodwill gesture from a world in need.
From the sidhe mounds ride the fairy troops. Their reels and calls to "away" so much louder than I remember. Though we wreck destruction upon their homes and our own environment, may they live forevermore and pray always recognize those among us that believe.
And late in the night, in the steadily glowing embers of the Samhain fire we find communion. In this deepest place we again renew the bond between individual and community, mortal and divine; we are One, albeit briefly.
Some years ago I wrote that Samhain rituals were undertaken to "attempt to exert control over forces that buffet the tribe." More likely, these and other rituals were and are undertaken to bring humans closer to alignment with Nature and their own deeper Selves (and thus their own divinity). Rather than "exert control over," I prefer now to yield to a greater internal and external reality for which I have the utmost respect.
By morning, November 1, the New Year has come. The leafless trees join me in stretching arms skyward in reverence of the great wheel turned.
And so ends the 101st article, my Samhain reverie - a grand carousel of thoughts revolving slowly in the wind. Over the years I have appreciated many words of kindness from kindred hearts near and far. To every reader, my thanks for your company. And my heartfelt gratitude and appreciation to Maura McCay, the dauntless and talented publisher of this newspaper, whose gift of this column has meant more to me than she could know. Thank you, Maura. Blessed Be dear reader, best wishes for your journey, may we have many more years together. Happy New Year.