Trick or Treat?
For the first time this year, there was frost on my window
pane this morning. Far from depressing me, I felt invigorated. As we move into
the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, I am brimming with interest to see
how Spain does Hallowe’en.
I have been feeling somewhat spaced-out and lightheaded for
a few days now. I always feel this way at this time of year. I am what is
laughingly known as a “sensitive”, but most people usually seem to notice
something at this time of year. A slowing down in mind, a need to sleep more, a
transitional time between autumn and winter. Most do indeed put it down to the
change in seasons, but as any psychic will tell you, this is also the time when
the veil between the two worlds of what is seen and what is unseen is
traditionally believed to be at its thinnest. The time when communication
between both is most easily facilitated, and the time when the departed are
remembered with love.
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| A Samhain Ancestor Altar (Pic courtesy of Pinterest) |
Or rather it was traditionally before it was turned into a
circus of freaks and ghouls, black and orange plastic tridents in every shop,
and children on the doorstep clamouring for sweets, who will kick you, or at
least your doorframe if you don’t have any (yes, that's happened to me!).
I often marvel how western civilisation so easily forgets
its own traditions in its anxiousness to pour awe and wonder on other nations
instead. How many people have I met who read avidly about the Mexican Day of
the Dead, or the Tibetan version of same, without it occurring that Europe’s
own Day of the Dead has been October 31st for at least a thousand years, pre-dating
Christianity. It has been proved that ancient peoples of the British Isles and
beyond worshipped female deities and honoured the passing of the seasons with
rites based around care of the land.
Hallowe’en, or Samhain (pronounced “sawain”) to give it its
Celtic name, was traditionally the time when the land was put to bed for the
winter, and the clan prepared to “go into the dark”. In more recent times, with
the resurgence of the Old Religion as espoused mainly by Gerald Gardner of the
famous New Forest coven way back in the early 1950’s, revivalists have turned
the eve itself into a truly beautiful festival. Allegorical tales are told of
how The Goddess at this time goes down to the Underworld to prepare for her
regeneration in spring (at Imbolc on February 2nd), and places are set at table
for those passed, to let them know they will be welcome should they wish to
visit. Many believe this was the original reason for the lanterns on the
gateposts, to light the way home for the dear departed ones.
October 31st is actually New Year’s Eve. At least in the
pre-Christian calendar. All Saints Day, when the pious would give thanks for
surviving the night before, the old New Year’s Day. It is a time for reflection
and remembrance. For my part, I shall be remembering my living friends too, who
I miss, and with whom I would normally be at this time.
One Samhain years ago, when I and several of these others
were celebrating the eve with a hearty cook-in and pomegranate pudding at a
house in Oxfordshire, we were summoned to the door by a loud knocking. Opening
it, we found several small children on the step. One was dressed in a sheet and
carrying a plastic trident, one had a green face, plastic fangs and a black
cape, and one little girl was in traditional stripey tights and a witch’s
outfit complete with droopy hat and plastic Harry Potter broomstick.
We did actually have a tray of sweets waiting, and opened
the door with big smiles all around, but the little ones’ eyes widened as they
took us in, and they simply scarpered.
We all looked at each other in mild surprise. Yes, we were
all wearing black, yes some of us were wearing ivy in our hair, and yes, one of
us was leaning on an antler-topped staff.
At least, when we ventured forth the next day for a brisk
walk in the frosty air we noticed that of all the houses in the street, ours
was the only one that had not been pelted with flour and eggs.
Wise children.
Not because had they flour-bombed our house we would have
put them in our bubbling cauldron out back, but because we would have removed
them by their ears and reported them to their parents.
Sadly, although we prepare a dish of treats every year, the
children have not been knocking since. They are afraid, and it is a shame.
This, after all, is only their own culture risen from the
grave...
©Emmeline Wyndham – 2007
