This is the time of year
when many of my pagan and Wiccan friends
celebrate their New Year; All
Hallows E'en, Samhain, the night when the
veils between the worlds are thin.
I share with my readers
a twenty-year-old meditation I wrote during
the years when I walked a Wiccan path.
Even if such a path is not yours, it is
a good time for all of us to reflect back
on what we must die to, in order to be
reborn. May all find it useful.
Night has cloaked the countryside in
frost-rimed velvet. A sickle moon climbs
the clouds, hooking Her horn into wisps
of grey. Tiny lights glimmer in a crystalline
sky.
You are in a wood. It is ancient, this
wood, the ground spongy with leaves from
countless seasons. Your footfalls are
silent as you search for a path through
the bracken. Cobwebs cling to you; brambles
and low bushes catch at you wherever
you walk. Soft rustlings at odd moments
remind you that there are others, not
human, to whom the night belongs. The
wind sighs mournfully, a soft dirge tangled
in the trees.
It is the trees that rule here. Great
gnarled roots claim the soil. Heavy trunks,
scarred and old with moss-covered bark,
crowd together as if for counsel. Branches
winter-bare claw heavenward, with the
last leaves waiving tattered summer banners.
One massive oak dominates the rest.
The others are but striplings compared
to it, its trunk unable to be compassed
by a dozen men. Old before the forest
began, its bark shows the marks of men
and animals that have tried to take it
down. The men are but memories, the animals
dead and naught but bone - and the tree
lives on.
There is a shadowing in the heart of
the tree. It shifts, fading into darkness,
then solidifying. The shadow is an opening,
a cleft in the oak; the air within is
colder yet. . . and you are drawn to
it.
Carefully, cautiously, you stretch
your hand into the darkness, and find
steps. Crude steps that go down and down
into the ground.
Drawing a resolute breath, you enter
the oak and descend.
The sounds of the forest die away behind
you. You are in the womb of the earth,
utterly still and utterly black. You
guide yourself down the steps with a
hand on the wall. The wall is damp, smelling
of loam and grubs and decay. You pull
your cloak around you for warmth.
Finally, after what seems hours, you
sense the steps getting shallower, the
stairway widening. Ahead there is a phosphorescent
glow, sending silhouettes of roots skittering
against the walls.
A tunnel snakes ahead into the gloom.
A series of veils hang from the ceiling,
wavering in the slight current of air.
You hesitate; will you year the veils?
Will they let you pass?
You push the first one aside. Suddenly,
there is a pale Wraith at your side.
Think back to the first death that touched
you; the first family member that was,
and then was not. Look into their face;
greet them. Tell them what you never
did; let them tell you what they never
got a chance to say. You embrace them
and they are gone.
You go to the next veil, push it aside.
You find another friend gone to the Summerland;
another chance to speak and to be spoken
to. Tell them what is in your heart;
let them gift you with what was in theirs.
Embrace them, and let them go.
You go through as many veils as there
have been passings in your life. Each
one has carved you just a little. And
then, there are new Wraiths at which
you stare in fascination. They are you
- and yet they are not. They are who
you have been - they are your former
lives. Each comes to impart a lesson,
to give you a key to this life from a
life before. Some of them are beautiful,
wise and kind; some are cruel; some despairing
and afraid; and some do not even know
that you and they are one.
Talk to all of them. Admit them to
your heart; they are part of you. Embrace
them; accept their lessons and let them
go.
At the last veil, you find yourself
in a large chamber. It is ringed with
torches, each one held by a black-robed
priestess.
In the center of the chamber is a solitary
throne. Obsidian and mahogany, rock and
wood, it has roots like the oak, and
like the oak they sink deep into the
ground.
In that place sits the Deathcrone.
She is black and white. Black hair
falls over Her arms, trails in Her lap,
pools at Her feet like riverwater in
moonlight. Her robe is black, like Her
priestesses, so black that there is no
reflection to show texture or fold. Her
face is white as bone, Her hands like
the finest marble. Her eyes are black,
as if they had been cut from the night
sky at New Moon. Only Her lips hold a
tinge of pink, as if to speak of the
lifeblood that renews itself beyond death
through rebirth.
Those lips smile at you; the fathomless
eyes hold your own. You know that there
are many who would fear Her, run mad
from Her presence and never find their
way back to the light. . . and you know
that, for you, there is no fear, only
acceptance and comfort. So you go willingly
to the outstretched hand, sink down at
Her feet, closing your eyes, your head
resting against Her knee.
Time stops. You do not count time at
the foot of Her throne; you are only
conscious of your own thoughts, and Her
hand softly, ceaselessly caressing your
brow. Her touch keeps your mind clear,
able to see far deeper into yourself
than you ever have above. Now is the
time to go through your memories, one
by one, as through a large and beloved
book. Pore over them, owning each one,
savoring each one, the good and the bad,
not judging, only remembering, only accepting.
Examine the Veils and the Wraiths, and
take into yourself the gifts they brought
you. And let yourself float in the dark,
as if you, too, had become a Wraith,
awaiting rebirth and the recollection
of your future Selves.
A movement in front of you: one of
the priestesses kneels at the Dark One's
feet, proffering a pottery bowl. She
leans forward, taking it only Her lap,
and then gently tilts your face upward.
You open your mouth at Her voiceless
request, and feel Her place the pomegranate
seeds on your tongue. They are bittersweet
and icy cold. You swallow, the juice
burning your throat. Somehow, they bring
you to your feet, and you feel time poised
to move again.
"It is given to few to see Me and
remember," She says to you softly. "You
are one of the Wise Ones who know Me
and are not afraid. Because of this,
I will show you the Way of Return, and
promise that, each year, you may seek
me at Samhain, that we may renew the
bond of Death and Rebirth."
She kisses your brow, and signs it
with the Waning Moon. Another priestess
bows, this time to you, and leads you
to a great Wheel. The Wheel towers high
above you, its upper spokes lost in shadow.
. . but you move toward it confidently,
and with a light touch set it spinning.
The spinning catches you like a windblown
leaf; the torches blow out and you are
sent spiraling upward. All thought is
torn from you, as you hold to the knowledge
that you live, that you will life, that
it is life which speeds you upward.
There is an explosion of light that
blinds you after so much dark; suddenly,
you find yourself standing at the edge
of the wood, the oak tree miles behind
you. The light resolves itself into a
bonfire, beckoning you into warmth and
fellowship. You turn and look backward,
as if to mark where the great oak stands.
. . and then move forward into the light.
