Thoughts On Death And Samhain

There is a movement afoot in the end-of- life care community to introduce the concept of dying as a transition to the general public. This is certainly not anything new, as it is a concept shared by many spiritual traditions. The core of this concept is that death is simply another stage of life, a threshold stage where the living crossover to the afterlife ( whatever you think that is). There are many theories about the afterlife which is  influenced by religious dogma, culture and society. This concept makes clear that although what we perceive as the life force that animates the physical body ceases to exist, the spiritual element, that is, the soul, lives on in entheric form. Some religions teach that the devout dead go to live with the Divine ( or a form/place unique to their understanding of the subject). Others believe the dead go into a type of healing stasis before making the journey to that place, or reincarnating. And finally, a growing number of individuals believe death is a state of nothingness.

Although the majority of mainstream Christians believe their immortal soul goes to Heaven to spend Eternity with their God, typically, the Bible offers conflicting verses: Job 19:25, the verses famously used by Christian clergy at funerals," I know that my Redeemer lives and at last he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then from my flesh I shall see God.” While all that is actually stated in this verse by Job is that he is aware that he will not return to this familiar mortal life, and nothing about the content of that existence, these verses are used in collaboration with others to prove a continuation of the spirit after death. Job 14:21 is quite different, as it says: “His sons come to honor, and he does not know it...” To many, this text is clear: there is no consciousness after death. Ecclesiastes 9:5 states..." For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward; but the memory of them is lost." The writer not only states that the dead know nothing, but that they have no additional benefit from this world, and that they are forgotten by the living. These are the verses that Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah's Witnesses often use as proof that death is final until Jesus makes his long awaited return to Earth. The Bible is often confusing and contradictory, and to be quite honest, so are most other sacred text. I have personally come to believe this is intentional, because the Divine wants us to be seekers, to explore and make our own decisions out of the many varied sources available to us.. The Mystery is just that-a mystery.

I believe the trend of thinking of dying as a stage of Life is a healthy one because we have become so disconnected from that which used to be a part of the everyday. Life was difficult and death was a fact. People, animals...everything eventually died. There was not a big bunch of hoopla about it; if someone passed away,  family, friends and community came together and did what needed to be done. Someone cleaned the body and dressed it, someone else sewed a shroud or made a coffin, there might have been some sort of ritual or religious service, and then the body was buried. That was that and back to business after a couple of days because life, as they say, goes on. The whole scenario was repeated with each successive death, and everyone instinctively knew what needed to be done. There was a well rehearsed routine within the community: when an individual became terminally ill or grew old and neared the end of their existence, family provided primary care and friends pitched in to help, because this type of thing affected everyone. When the death occurred, everyone knew there were certain things to be done and those tasks were delegated. The death and subsequent after care of the body was not given over to outsiders, mainly because there was no one else.Professional care was unheard of. The funeral industry as we know it didn't exist until relatively recently. Embalming was not a common practice until the Civil War, when field surgeons or others with quasi-medical training prepared bodies with preservatives for transport so families could see their loved one one more time before burial. This changed the public mindset about dying and death drastically and also created quite a few taboos, while either lending credence or discrediting others.


But what does all this have to do with the ancient Celtic holiday/season of Samhain?


The answer is: much more than you would think.


Death has always been Life's greatest mystery.There are more unanswered questions and more taboos and customs centered around  death than anything else that befalls humans. It happens to all of us eventually, yet most individuals are at a loss when dealing with its effects and aftereffects. The traditions and rites surrounding Samhain give us a foundation to build on so we are better able to not only cope with the death of  those we love, but our own.

In order to lay this foundation, we need a few tools from history...
"Samhain" is a Celtic word loosely translated to mean "final harvest"; each Celtic country has a slightly different pronunciation or spelling of the word. The final harvest followed that of grain and vegetables. Quite often it is referred to as "the meat harvest" because the festival took place at a time of the year when grazing animals were brought down from the higher elevations and the herds culled.The meat was cured ( usually through salting or smoking), or in some areas of extended cold during Winter, it was frozen. The animals that were spared were blessed by driving them between fires or went through a rite intended to protect them from disease or maleficent spirits. Bonfires were lit on hillsides for the same purpose- to ward away any spirits that might bring bad fortune. Some believed the souls of the recent dead stayed hidden in the woods near the place where they died before going to a place of rest, and the bonfires were  used to  either drive them away or guide them along their journey. There are many stories concerning local customs. Samhain, to be sure, was a spiritual and magickal time, but what it wasn't was a holiday dedicated to "Samhain, the Lord of Death" because scholars of ancient Celtic history and mythology agree that there is no proof that a god named Samhain ever existed. To my own knowledge, there is no god in the Irish/Scot/English/Manx or Welsh pantheon with a name even close to Samhain. In fact, the only two historical references found by Professor Ronald Hutton are credited  to Charles Vallency's series of books in 1770 and again in a book by Godfrey Higgins in 1827, and both references are fleetingly brief.

For many NeoPagans, no matter their chosen tradition, Samhain is the most important Sabbat on the Wheel of the Year (calendar). It is a time to communicate with their Beloved Dead and to welcome them into their homes. It is a time to renew memory of those who have crossed the Veil and to meld with them spiritually. It is said that which is remembered lives; continually calling forth those in blessed memory during this season makes this so. Sharing a meal with them during the Dumb Supper or simply laying out food as an offering is a powerful bond for both the Living and the Dead. My fondest memories and the majority of my deepest friendships all began with the sharing of  a place at the table, a bit of cheese and wine, or a cup of tea. Food is one of life's necessities because we are nourished and sustained by it.Offerings of food has been a part of spiritual practice in many cultures.

Calling the Beloved Dead to you, creating a visualization or meditative space- what the Scots call Kything- is a favorite form of connection for me, at Samhain and other times. This has become especially important as a practice  to me because I now live in a different part of the country than where my family is buried, and a several friends who have crossed the Veil chose forms of disposition of their remains other than burial. Creating a cast circle and calling them into sacred space is comfortable and comforting; it is a place to be together and speak through our hearts.

Samhain is also the time when I remind myself who I am and what my purpose in this life is. It may sound corny, but because of all the imagery that surrounds Halloween/Samhain night, I feel a particularly open to my personal witchiness. I know that I am a witch 24/7, but on this night that is not a typical night, at a time when we sit on the threshold, I Am Witch. Power of suggestion, perhaps, but that's how it is.

In the not so distant past, this sort of connection was not saved for a special day once a year. It was practiced everyday. Everyone spoke to the dead. Everyone spoke to their ancestors. It was not odd and no one thought you were becoming unhinged. It was something you instinctively did because you grew up thinking that way. People consulted their ancestors and the Beloved Dead for everyday matters because they believed they were just a step beyond known consciousness. Death was not a final separation, but a transition to a different level of existence. How wise our fore bearers were. How wise indeed.

                                                                         
[ For your further consideration read Christian Day's Witches Book of the Dead]

When the World Tilts

Once in awhile my world tilts; it usually happens when I have a serious WTF moment. Yesterday was like that when I opened up Facebook to find a message that simply said " We've lost Heather." When I read those words the world wobbled and shifted. She was gone from this mortal plane at the age of 36.  I tried to remember what I was doing at that age.

She was one of the original group I fell in with from CovenSpace. It seems so long ago now. They say time speeds up as you get older. It feels like those people have been in my life forever. We don't communicate as much as we used to, but we are still a part of the tapestry of each others lives. We still care. Occasionally we post comments on the vast time-suck that is Facebook to one another. It's good to be a part of something larger than yourself. It's good to know we have those silver threads to anchor us, even as Life has it's way.

Over the years Heather and I messaged back and forth over mundane and magickal things. Most of it bat-related as of late. She loved bats and so do I. She loved them for their relationship to Nightkind;
I love them for their part in Nature as pollinators. Besides, they're seriously furry and cute and their huge eyes make them irresistible. I am hooked on bats. Heather and I shared a love of vampires and the culture surrounding The Craft. We exchanged ideas for artsy-fartsy things. She was also a talented amateur  photographer and had a genuine eye for detail. Photography was something I dabbled in years ago; I still have my Nikon SLR camera tucked away in the back of a closet. I'd been thinking about digging it out at Heather's urging. Now I feel like I owe it to her to try.

Her half-crazed familiar Fury was one of her ( and my) favorite subjects.He's sleek and expressive. One of my favorite photos from Heather is Fury fast asleep on top of a door. Last week, right after Heather died her husband posted that Fury was sitting in the window waiting for her to come home.
I would have been disappointed to hear anything less.

Over this past week I put up a memorial (group) page for Heather on Facebook, and all of her friends-online and real time-pulled into a cohesive community. Everyone is still in shock at her bright light being extinguished so suddenly and we'd all like to have that one chance to tell her how much we cared. Instead, we're telling each other how much it hurts to have her missing in our lives. We make posts to her on the page, telling her how much we love her and what we will miss about having her in our lives. Sharing in this way helps to take the edge off the pain because we know we aren't alone in our confusion, anger and pain. We hurt as a whole and grieve deeply as individuals. We post memes we know she would squealed with delight at seeing and poetry/essays/songs she would have loved. And quietly, we sit behind our computer screens and shed a tear or smile and nod in agreement. Welcome to mourning in the digital age.

Those of us who share Heather's magickal and faith tradition know she's just across The Veil with the beloved dead and ancestors, and that she's begun an incredible journey of rebirth. So we continue to talk to her and look for little signs from her-white feathers,especially-and share a good cup of coffee.
We light candles to guide her and urge her to transcend to the next level of existence. We send flowers to her loved ones and words of comfort and encouragement. Other than that we are still broken-hearted and lost with too many questions. To be quite truthful, the answers might supply a momentarily satisfaction, but don't really matter in the larger picture. They never do, but it doesn't stop us from asking. There are no answers to some of Life's questions, like why Fate takes the turn it does sometimes.

Farewell and Godspeed, my little Witchling! Let love light your way to the stars!

An Unexpected Visit To Avalon...

This was not the blog I expected to write tonight. Honestly, I never dreamed I would be writing this at all. At least not today.

My friend Arthur died sometime during the past week. We aren't sure when it happened. When he didn't show up at work and his family lost contact with him, the police were called to check on him at his apartment, and he was found in his bed. We are still awaiting details and  a reasonable explanation for his death.

Arthur and I met during our first heady days on Pagan Space, when we were each trying to connect with real people in our area just for coffee,conversation and validation that neither of us were crazy to believe in the power of magick. We had chatted back and forth online for about a year and actually knew each other pretty well  before we finally met at Magic Mushroom late one afternoon for pizza. I senses we were both a little nervous about that first meeting, but once we were happily munching away, it was like we'd been old friends forever. Because of our online friendship we both were pretty certain the other wasn't an ax murderer...but...you never know. Sitting outside near a busy street late on a Friday afternoon just as everyone was getting out of work seemed pretty safe. The conversation and coffee (later,when we'd adjourned next door to Starbucks) flowed freely. We hated to say goodnight, and in fact, we were back online chatting away later that evening. It wasn't that we were infatuated with one another, it was that each of us had finally found someone to connect with who shared similar backgrounds in our spiritual journey, and who had similar tastes in...well...just about everything. Books. Music. Theater. Art. We'd both come out of the Episcopal Church and found we had many mutual friends. Individually, we'd explored Buddhism and still kept Buddhist principles. And the best part was we had the male/female polarity thing going with no sexual baggage.

We spent a lot of time together the first couple of years after we met: we went to rituals and festivals, worship services, art shows and recitals.We haunted Barnes and Noble. We spent hours on the phone discussing philosophy and religion, the latest missive by (the former)Teo Bishop, and which occult books we thought were a waste of paper and ink. We wrote liturgy and rituals together. Arthur was in many ways more than a friend; he was my brother. We came to be close enough to be able to finish one anothers' sentences and thoughts...and I was heartbroken when I finally decided ( with Arthur's encouragement) that I had no other choice than to move out of the area to seek better health care and housing options. It was not a choice I made lightly; the majority of people I hold dear live in North Carolina. Arthur reluctantly gave me his blessing-and wrote my character reference/letter of introduction to the housing manager for my new digs.

I was now two and a half hours and two hundred twenty something miles away by car, but only a few minutes away by phone, but we kept up on our magickal and mundane lives. Arthur promised to visit when he had a few days to get away. Last year, the holidays had been difficult because I was still very much alone and missing him; we'd made it a habit to spend most holidays together. I was looking forward to welcoming him to my new home and sharing a meal at my table. We talked about making a trip to Asheville-a place I adore, and as it turns out, just happened to be his birthplace. At some point there was a Rick Springfield concert in our future because Arthur was a closet RS freak and wanted his copy of Tao autographed.

In the space of a breath, it was all gone.

My friend, priestess and sister Laurel, herself still in shock, private messaged me on Facebook last night with the news," I don't know a whole lot yet, but please hold Arthur in the light. He died in his sleep..." I immediately called Laurel because I needed to connect and hear her voice. We spoke briefly in quiet voices, two priestesses midwifing this death. Laurel's mother, our Elder and Crone Priestess, felt that Arthur was waiting for us because we didn't know he'd gone. And she's right: that would be like him, he wouldn't just leave us alone.He would make sure we were alright. If nothing else, as a consummate Southern gentleman, he would not take his leave without a proper farewell. I spent a little time grieving with other friends online, then made some coffee and headed out to one of the back balconies of my apartment complex to watch the full moon rise over the mountain and cry in private.
While there I wrote a few words to release Arthur's spirit and help guide him on his journey.

Step into the boat

The Ferryman has been paid

With the tears of those who love you.

Should you hear weeping

Do not turn back-

Sail on and do not stop.

The Ancestors await

Your arrival in Avalon.

The Veil between us closes for now...

Farewell, Arthur!

We who have loved you

Wish you a good journey home. 

Life is impermanent. Dying is inevitable. That is the truth that transcends every religious tradition and indeed is the only thing that is a given in our earthly existence. We are born and die: what happens in between is pretty much up to us. Arthur chose to be humble, gracious and loving. He lived a life of service faithfully to the Immanent Divine and his brethren as druid, priest, teacher and friend to all kindred. He will continue to live on in memory with us until we meet again.

Death and Community-A Reflection

(Originally posted as part of the Pagan Blog Project,week D-1)

We Pagans are fond of saying that Death is not the end of Life; that's not entirely true. The cessation of physical existence on this plane of consciousness is but one of the many Rites of Passage we experience as humans. We may have a belief that when we die we "cross the Veil" to another form of spirit. We may have faith that happens, but we actually don't know what happens to the spirit when it leaves the body. That is one of the Great Unknowns. It is a certainty that we will all die someday; that's how Life is wired. One day each of use will simply no longer exist, our physical body will decay and return to its most basic elements, and we will return to the soil that formed our ancestors.

Humans cling to many notions and taboos about Death. One notion is that we survive in the form of a soul which passes from one level of being to another. We are fully conscious of our existence and that of others of our kind, and so one of us dies many of us choose to believe that we will live somewhere else in another form. In fact, nearly every religious tradition shares that myth: that we go on elsewhere. Why do we do this? I believe it's very simple: we want to know that we mattered, we want to know that what we did in the span of our incarnation made an impact on others. Humans have an innate need to be validated in order to justify (perhaps in their own mind) their presence in this world. Even those who do not believe in life after death want to leave a legacy so others-(and they themselves) know they were here.

Little over a month ago I presided over a memorial ritual for a member of a group of which I was associated. The individual who had died was young and the circumstances of her death were particularly tragic. Her birth family was not Pagan and I'm sure would have been offended if any of us had dared to show up at the spiritual 'homecoming' they held for her, so we had our own. Out of the community's grief over the loss of the individual, there was the emptiness of the void she left. One of us was gone and would not be coming back. The most poignant thing said  during the time of sharing during which we took turns expressing our love for her and joy at having known her was,  "April mattered."  In that moment, I believe, we understood the importance of belonging: our existence was cherished by the others in the circle. Each of our lives mattered because there was a deliberate place for us in the lives of others.

Whether or not we like to admit it, humans long for place.  Best-selling author and Irish mystic John O' Donohue notes," When two people discover each other, the way they look and talk to each other indicates that they are enfolding each other in a circle of presence." [Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong, HarperCollins Publishers,1999] We want to be acknowledged, we want our presence to speak our existence.

But what happens to that existence when we die? Does our existence die also? At what point does existence became memory?



It has been my experience as the witness and officiant of a number of funerals, that just after the passing of a loved one, those left behind want to hold them close. Most don’t want to let go, physically or metaphorically. They don’t want to lose the essence of the individual. That is a natural part of grief and mourning. There is a saying that there are two deaths: When you stop breathing and the last time someone speaks your name.

We keep those we love and care for alive in our nostalgic remembrances.  Episodic memory represents our ability to recall autobiographical events-times, places, emotions and related detail; Semantic memory delves into the rather secret world of personal meaning. Together, they cull the mind of experiences and compartmentalize what we remember.[http://www.human-memory.net/types_episodic.html]

The truth is that we exist after we die as a form of thought to those who survive us. Subjective material is what makes that thought form come alive. It is why we fondly remember Aunt Jenny’s cherry pie that we can almost taste twenty years later. It is how we can momentarily recall what being 16 years old feels like. And it is how we experience the presence of an individual.

Life and Death are essential parts of the same creative process. We don’t know where we came from in the beginning and aren’t sure where we’re going in the end. One day each of us will simply no longer exist, our physical body will decay and return to its most basic elements, and we will return to the soil that formed our ancestors. It is our task to live, but it is the task of those left behind to honor and celebrate memory.

A Life, Interrupted

Whitney Houston was one of several musical artists who brought a great deal of much needed attention to the decaying inner cities of New Jersey at a time when the state was undergoing a Renaissance. Her position in pop culture lent a justified feeling of pride in the poor and especially black communities in and around Newark. At that time, Whitney Houston's voice was one of pure joy and the power of the Spirit. There was a certain light within her that as bright as the sun. When she sang, you could not help being engulfed in that light.


I am not a fan, but I enjoyed her talent both as a singer and an actress. Her meteoric rise to fame was an inspiration to many young people and watching her self-destruct was a painful lesson in what happens when personal demons are not dealt with in a positive, life affirming manner by the individual and those around them.

Everyone of us, at one time or another, has dreamed of the celebrity lifestyle. Admit it. We've all daydreamed about what we would do with the wealth, designer wardrobe, fabulous cars and the public adulation. We've imagined how happy it would make us and how life would be so much better that the one we're living now if we were a celebrity.

Undoubtedly, having that kind of money might make our lives less stressful and more carefree. The trappings of fancy might just make us momentarily happy  before we get bored by the presence and clutter of  'things'. It depends on your perspective and the choices you make with such as wealth and material possessions. Celebrity will not heal you. It will not affect those things that eat away inside you in the middle of the night or in your weakest moment. It will not in and of itself make any difference at all without the self-examination and inner work needed to successfully integrate into a healthy, whole person.
 
The public lays many different forms of expectation on celebrities, one of which is that we expect them to transcend all the things that make us human-they're supposed to somehow be better than we are ourselves. They are expected to exude the perfection we ourselves do not have: we in effect make gods out of them. But they are merely humans. When people like you and I screw up, our failure is relatively private and doesn't go any further...but when a celebrity screws up it's in front of the entire world and everyone see's your shortcomings. All of your faults and failures are right out there on TMZ or the front page of the National Enquirer, and the we the public just love to see that because secretly, they're breathing a collective sigh of relief that it some other poor soul and not us. It's a very human tendency toward meanness that none of us want to admit we have.

Whitney Houston's life -and death- is  a reminder of the fragility of the body and spirit and what happens when we push the envelope too far beyond our human capacity.

Death is the Ultimate Healing, and I hope that Whitney found the peace she so desperately desired and was denied in life when she crossed the Veil.

( This blog was cross-posted from my general spirituality blog, Feast of Days)

Remembering Love

It's just a tiny ornament, one inch long and half an inch wide. Sandwiched between two small pieces of glass is a faded, brown little flower, with the word
"Love" etched below. It's held together by a bit of metal foil and hangs by a frayed red ribbon.

It means the world to me.

We were standing in front of a shop  window filled with etched glass ornaments and sun catchers in Baltimore's Inner Harbor in mid- September,having walked from Camden Yards where we'd spent a relaxing afternoon watching the O's. Frankly, I'm not much for baseball-I'm not a fan of any sports, really: Occasionally I watch the Olympics. On this particular day I'd made the 90 minute drive down I-95 to volunteer on the crew at a charitable event John was playing for the regional Cerebral  Palsy agency, and we would be attending the Orioles game prior to the concert. Some of us took a side trip through the Inner Harbor just to window shop and came upon this glass shop.

The rather plain rectangle was quietly put into my hand. It was wrapped in a piece of white tissue paper. There was a tiny pressed purple and white violet and the word "Love" etched into the glass. It would look cute on my Christmas tree and join in the eclectic riot of ornaments that I carefully packed away each year. There were no accompanying pronouncements of love, just a low-key, non-romantic "Here you go-from me."  John had brought me ornaments from all over the world for my collection, so we'd gone through this particular ritual for years; most of the time something would arrive in the mail followed a day later by a phone call. Occasionally, like this day, the babble in question would be handed to me in person.

Nothing appeared special about the little glass rectangle when it was pressed into my hand. Nothing at all.

Except it would be the last ornament John ever gave me. He was killed in a plane crash three weeks later. I was devastated not by his dying, but by the separation of death. I wanted him back. I still do.

I'd forgotten about the little glass rectangle until I found it still wrapped in the tissue paper tucked deep in the pocket of my purse one day in early December. It was just in time to put it on the tree with my other pretties and twinkling lights. John had been dead exactly two months to the very day I placed it on a high branch so the cats wouldn't disturb it. Back lit by the lights on the tree, the edges of the etched letters made tiny dancing stars.

Fifteen Christmases have passed since John died, yet he's still with me. This one particular little piece of sparkling glass is always hung at eye-level so I can pick it out easily it every time I  look at my holiday tree. Admittedly, it is not as pretty as it used to be since the flower faded. But I remember what it looked like when it was new, and that's what I see, a delicate purple and white violet. Violets, in the language of flowers, have many meanings: friendship, love, remembrance, resurrection, rebirth... an un-ending promise. The ancient Romans laid violets on the graves of loved ones to denote continued affection after death. This is what enters my subconscious every time the little ornament catches my eye. It tells me that our friendship has endured beyond the veil and is still present even today. It says that the relationship not only continues, but will bring us back together at another time and place.

Another wonder of this magickal season, where Mystery reminds us of the fragility of Life and Love.