Between the Worlds: A Samhain Reflection
At this threshold of the year, I find myself standing on a bridge—between the old and the new, the living and the dead, the ancient and the modern. Samhain, Calan Gaeaf, Halloween… whatever name we give it, this time carries a deep pulse of transition.
I honour my ancestors now—both familial and land-based. Those who walked before me, who shaped the soil I live on, who whisper through the mist.
And yet, I also delight in the modern echoes of ancient ritual: taking my children trick-or-treating, joining Halloween parties, watching as so many unknowingly partake in a custom rooted in pagan reverence. It’s a beautiful paradox—how the sacred survives in play.
Echoes Through Time: Samhain, Halloween & Calan Gaeaf
Long before pumpkins and plastic skeletons, this time of year marked a sacred threshold. Samhain, the ancient Celtic festival, honoured the end of the harvest and the beginning of the dark half of the year. It was believed that the veil between worlds thinned, allowing spirits and ancestors to draw near. People lit bonfires, wore disguises to confuse wandering souls, and left offerings to honour the dead.
In Wales, this tradition took the form of Nos Galan Gaeaf—Winter’s Eve. On the night before Calan Gaeaf, the first day of winter, bonfires were lit to ward off spirits.
Tales were told of Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta, the tailless black sow who roamed the land with a headless white spectral woman, seeking those who lingered too long after dark.
Apples were bobbed for, charms cast, and love divined in the flickering firelight.
And while today we carve pumpkins into grinning faces, the original lanterns were made from turnips—hollowed out and etched with frightening expressions to ward off passing spirits. Their flickering candlelight was both protection and remembrance.
Now, children dress as ghosts and witches, knock on doors, and chant “trick or treat”—unknowingly participating in a centuries-old tradition of disguise, offering, and communal joy. The sacred survives in the secular, and the old stories walk beside the new.
The Teachings of Autumn
Autumn is one of my favourite seasons. It teaches me how to let go with grace. The leaves change, fall, and return to the earth. The colours blaze before fading. There’s beauty in the decay, in the composting of what no longer serves.
My perfect Autumn is made up of:
Cinnamon lattes and the scent of damp earth.
Misty mornings that turn ordinary sights into something mythic.
The crunch of crispy leaves underfoot.
Treasure hunts for mushrooms in every hue.
Tawny owls calling in the dark, seeking connection.
Longer evenings wrapped in blankets, lit by fairy lights and candle glow.
It all adds to the weird, the magic and the mystery of this time of year – an atmosphere that seems to permeate the very air around me.
Who wouldn’t feel enchanted by the Dragons Breath mists that haunt the Welsh Valleys?
What the Land Is Doing Now
Here in South Wales, the trees are at their most spectacular—draped in jewel-toned coats that shimmer in the low light.
The sweet gum trees stand sentinel along town roads, their leaves ablaze in reds and purples, while golden poplars glow like lanterns in the wind. The branches are beginning to loosen their grip, but they are not yet bare.
There’s a grace in the gradual letting go.
Fungi appear as if by magic—overnight, where there was no hint of life the day before, tiny worlds emerge. The air grows quieter. Many birds have begun their migration to warmer climes, and in their place come winter visitors from the north. Canadian geese return to our waterways, and redwings and fieldfares arrive to forage in the hedgerows.
In the garden, the robins reappear, bold and familiar. Goldfinches gather for the seed of the evening primrose, and the flocks of tits swell—no longer paired off, but moving together in large groups, knowing their chances of survival are better in community.
And as the evenings darken earlier, the sky becomes a canvas. Star constellations shine more clearly, and I find myself watching for the annual autumn meteor showers—a ritual of quiet awe, a reminder of the vastness above and the rootedness below.
Listening in the Dark
As the days shorten, I find it easier to go within. The distractions of summer fall away, and I hear my own voice more clearly—alongside the voices of my ancestors. The dark draws them closer. Blood kin and land spirits alike. I lean into this quiet wisdom, letting it guide what I study, what I create, what I offer in the darker months.
I spend time reflecting on how this season would have been a make-or-break moment for my ancestors. Their survival through winter depended on the strength of the harvest and their ability to avoid illness in the cold months. If their stores spoiled, there was no supermarket down the road—only hunger. Disease could sweep through entire communities, leaving grief and silence in its wake.
Winter is not always easy for me either. The lack of light and poor weather often keep me indoors under artificial lighting, and I miss the freedom and vitality of summer. But remembering how hard long winters must have been for those before me helps me hold gratitude for the comforts we now have. Though winter can be emotionally challenging, it is—thankfully—a safe time for most of us.
This season invites reflection, intuition, and deep listening. It’s not just about endings—it’s about composting, dreaming, and preparing the soil for what’s to come.
🕯️ A Threshold Blessing
As the veil thins and the year turns, may you find space to listen—to the land, to your lineage and to your own quiet knowing. Whether you mark Samhain with ritual or simply notice the shift in the air, this season invites you to honour what’s passing, tend what’s emerging, and rest in the mystery between.
You might light a candle for your ancestors, walk at dusk with a question in your heart, or simply sit in silence and let the dark speak.
Whatever you choose, may it root you in land and lineage and carry you into the next turn of the wheel.
If you’d like to know more about the Welsh phantom pig and her spectral companion, I recommend this evocative post from The Druid’s Cauldron. It explores the eerie tale of Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta and the headless white woman who walks beside her, haunting the threshold of Calan Gaeaf.
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For more seasonal reflections steeped in mist, myth, and the gentle art of letting go, explore Thresholds in the Mist and Autumn Clearing—two offerings brewed with warmth and wonder.
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