I've just returned from the final Samhain ritual, the most solemn, and, for my way of thinking, the very best. This is a ritual that takes place on a mountain top in an undisclosed location. Only trusted members of the community are invited to participate in this ritual. This is not a ritual for observers, only for committed participants.
We make our way to the site one by one, each of us carrying a lighted jack o'lantern. We set them in a circle in front of us and wait in silence, seated on the ground, until everyone has arrived.
Then the circle is cast, the quarters are called, and the names of the Beloved Dead are read as we dance in a slow circle, chanting "what is remembered lived." After this, we dance the spiral dance one last time for the season, share cookies and juice, then say goodbye to the ancestors for another year.
It is my privilege to read the names of the Beloved Dead. The list grows longer every year--this year we had over 500 names--and I try to read each name with reverence and respect. It's hard when I come across the name of someone I know personally.
I go to the ritual site about an hour before everyone else. I sit in silence with my cloak wrapped around me, and my hood pulled down over my face, just meditating on this solemn act we will perform. And I call to mind all my personal Beloved Dead I want to remember. I really love sitting there in silence under the moon.
Tonight, just as we cast the circle, someone pointed out that the spatter of clouds made a spiral around the moon. It was almost too perfect.
The hike is substantial, and my old-lady knees are already complaining about the downhill trip home. But I wouldn't trade this ritual for anything. It is the most sacred way to spend what is the holiest night in the Pagan calendar.
When it was time to dismiss the ancestors, I blew them all a fat kiss, tossed off into space beyond all time. It's a place where I know I will some day dance on Samhain. And now to bed after a wonderful week of rituals and sharing. What is remembered lives.