Samhain Season

It is the season of Samhain, literally, summer’s end. It is a liminal time between life and death, growth and decay. It is a time of taking stock. And as the quiet settles in, it is a time of reflection and honoring all that has come before.

Last evening I took my dog for a walk in the dark. Daylight savings time has ended and it feels like 6pm is the darkest hour of the day. I live on a mountain ridge where there are no streetlights but where there are hundreds and thousands of trees. My heart was heavy as I moved along with road—I was struck with a deep realization, a knowing in my gut, not just on the separation papers, that this neighborhood I love is no longer mine.  

My dog distracted me from feeling sorry for myself when she stopped and stared into the woods. There was a rustling nearby and I hoped it wasn’t the bear who is frequently spotted loping around the hillside at dark. I took my flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on into the woods to the right of me, looking for eyes reflecting the light. I saw no eyes, yet the rustling sound persisted. I turned around noticing that the sound was coming from behind me as well, from the woods on the left side of the road too. 

And then I realized what I was hearing—the song of hundreds and thousands of leaves falling on the still night. A snowfall of brown, red, yellow, and orange. I stood and listened for a long while. And I sobbed, as I’ve been doing a lot of lately, but this time in humility. What grace. What a gift to be alive, under the loving stars, and surrounded by the lullaby of leaves finding their new home, their new life. 

[This post is a transition to next year’s theme, where I will be blogging about how I’m reacting and responding to this big change. When I think back to last year when I began writing about the wheel of the year, beginning with Yule, I was so, so settled in my life. It was unimaginable that in the course of a year’s time I would be packing my things, readying myself to make a new home away from my husband. To be on my own again.]