Every year the Dead are restless. This year even more so. They’re yearning to be remembered, to be learned from, to hear their names called. They want us to heal the wounds of earlier generations and to send that healing forward into our future. They want us to heal ourselves and to pass the how of that healing on. They want music and dance, art and trance.
I co-led a ritual where hordes of dead showed up and there were only a few of living there. They were filled with gratitude in the remembering, in the calling, in the mere mention of who they were and what they stood for. We called and hailed and feasted with them. When we were done, there was joviality and then a peace in the room that had eased in on soft feet and settled into soft chairs, smiling.
Blessed Samhain, you all.