Mí na Samhna
November. A month dedicated to ancestors: veneration, remembrance, and gratitude. The once brilliant leaves of gold and crimson glistening in crisp autumnal sunlight have turned brittle-brown, now lining the streets and paths in sodden, detrital heaps. The rains and winds are robust, the scent of winter is in the chill air. It’s nearly impossible to not be awash with nostalgia. We’ve entered the season of holy days, seemingly back-to-back festivities marked with merrymaking and gatherings, during the darkest and most somber time of the year. These Dark Tides compel us to reflect on what once was—we crave tradition and sentimentality and times long passed, yet we’re inundated with frivolity and crowds.
Watching the last glorious bits of autumn fade and fall is a bittersweet display of impermanence. A foreshadowing of what is inevitable: surrender. The chill reaches to our very bones and aches and pangs that come with age and experience are louder than during any other season.
The older I get the more sentimental I become this time of year. I remember those who have gone before me—family, friends, animal companions—and reflect on their impact on my life. I set the table for a holiday feast the way my mother showed me. I bake the apple pie my father adored. I still keep the lowest boughs free of the most fragile ornaments, (out of the way of Chloe’s tail that once wagged jubilantly and always sent some bobble flying and inevitably shattering…) though she hasn’t padded about my home for many years; her ghost still visits. It quietens me. It stills me. These moments of remembrance and honoring…they center me with a gentleness that is, in many ways, otherworldly.
As winter descends, I invite you to embrace the quietude of the season. Yes, the parties and the grandeurs of the holidays can pull us out of slumps, and are welcome distractions—but don’t let yourself become so very distracted you miss the magic of the season entirely. it is meant to be stark and bracing. It is meant to be experienced in candlelight, surrounded by dearest companions, over slow-cooked meals and with warm beverages. By the fireside. Wrapped in cozy, natural fibers, listening to the lulling sound of rain and sleet and wind—whispers of a past nearly forgotten, aching to be remembered once more.
