Samhain — death and the spiral of life
Hey Witches
A couple of years ago, I wrote a Samhain blog post called “Reflections on death”. A few months later, I wrote a piece for a client called “We need to talk about grief”. The main point of both articles was that we find death — and grief — so difficult because we avoid them until life forces us to look at them — often in the most cruel and unusual ways. I argued that death is a part of life, just another stage in the eternal spiral, as many Eastern, indigenous, and witchy philosophies have always taught.
Perhaps there was something premonitory about those articles, and with hindsight, I wonder whether I was actually channeling messages to myself, preparing myself for what was to come. I had experienced the death of my grandparents as a child, but not the kind of heart-wrenching loss that usually drives people to write about such things. The kind you read about on social media but never expect to happen to you. And yet, I was called to write about the need to accept death as another part of life, one to be looked at and embraced as readily as birth.
As October this year got underway, I, like many witches, began thinking about Samhain, the witches’ new year. As the last of the harvest is gathered and stored, we’re forced to contemplate death as it hangs beneath the grey sky and over the bare fields, and the veil between the two worlds is said to be at its thinnest. I gathered photos of my grandparents to make an altar to the ancestors and thought about what rituals I could use to honour and connect with them. Little did I know that death would be a much more poignant theme this year than I ever could have imagined.
On the 9th of October, I unknowingly spoke to my mother for the last time. A week later, on the evening of the 16th of October, I was sitting on the sofa watching the last episode of Orange Is the New Black when my father’s name came up on my phone screen. It was 10.30 at night, so I knew it couldn’t be good news, but nothing could have prepared me to hear the words: “Mummy has just died”.
I felt like I had jumped into a parallel universe. This wasn’t my life. My mum wasn’t dead. She was alive, watching Strictly Come Dancing, making handmade Christmas gifts for her numerous great nieces and nephews, calling her sister on FaceTime. She wasn’t lying in a drawer in the hospital morgue. It was impossible. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching someone else’s life happening. It wasn’t mine.
I cried all night, only stopping briefly to fall asleep for a couple of hours. By 5.30 in the morning, I was back on the sofa crying again. I cried as my partner and I drank wine for breakfast, cried as I drunkenly tried to navigate the Ryanair website, and resisted the urge to drink myself into oblivion instead of booking flights. I cried as I packed a bag of laundry I hadn’t had time to do. I cried at the bus stop, in the airport, and on the plane.
I sobbed as my brother hugged me in arrivals and whispered “I know”, in my ear. I broke down when I walked into the house that was so full of her — her hot water bottle, full of cold water, the birthday cards we had sent her this year, her unfinished knitting and sewing projects, her shopping list, and a million other little reminders of her now-defunct existence.
Losing a parent too young is like joining a club that no-one wants to be in. It’s your deepest fear come true. It’s that recurring nightmare that you keep expecting to wake up from but can’t.
Less than a month earlier, I had a tarot reading with a new friend who happens to be from my home county of Dorset, during which I had told her I felt called to come back and reconnect with the land and my ancestors. I had no idea I would be doing it so soon.
The days after my arrival in the UK passed in a sad blur that already I can barely recall. My unwillingness to accept the reality I was facing blocked my sensitivity and I couldn’t feel my mum’s presence at all. I felt so alone, in spite of the barrages of messages and phone calls of love and support and the physical comfort provided by my partner and family. There was no-one in the world who knew me like she did, no-one who could do what she did. And now she was gone.
I went to see my new friend who’s a powerful channel and my mum came through loud and clear. It was such a relief to feel her again, to know she’s okay, to hear the special messages she had for me. The session completely shifted my energy and cleared my channel, and I started to feel my mum so clearly it was like she never left. For a couple of days, her presence was so strong that I almost didn’t miss her or feel sad.
But grief is a journey, and post-mortem results followed by funeral arrangements soon brought me face to face with the deep dark hole in my soul once again. And so here I am, on the night of Samhain, sharing my pain with you, and reflecting on the poignance of this sacred moment on the Wheel of the Year.
Because death is a part of life, and today it’s me who’s grieving, but tomorrow it will be you. Nothing can prepare you for it, but you can prepare yourself by telling your loved ones how you feel, calling more often, being less quick to anger, more compassionate, and a kinder and more generous person. Love fiercely, fully, and unconditionally. Live in joy and gratitude. And hug as often as you can, because you never know when it might be the last.
So this Samhain I’m keeping it simple: lighting a candle for my beloved mum, who I miss so much in so many ways, yet who I know is right here with me and always will be.
Simple Samhain ritual
Materials:
1 black candle or tea light
Offering such as fruit, water, or a drink
Photos of deceased loved ones
Pen and paper
Light the candle and take a few moments to close your eyes and call in your ancestors or loved ones who have passed on.
Take the pen and paper and write a note to anyone on the other side you wish to contact. Place the note under the offering next to the candle.
Quietly meditate for a few minutes. You might then want to take some time to journal. Pay close attention to your dreams as they may carry messages.