Ritual

The day felt different. The dark crept up on us much quicker than we were used to, but it was most welcome. This day had always been my favorite, the crisp air, the woodsmoke, the gracefully dying leaves. They all work together in both seen and unseen ways to bring about the change, or perhaps the change brings them. Apples have fallen and begun to rot, their fragrance mixes with wet autumn leaves, and brings a feeling of coming home.

As we walked in,the smell of incense bathed us in sage, cinnamon and frankincense. The voices were hushed, seemingly covered in velvet. Those dressed in white asked kindly who we would like to honor, what names to print in the book of the dead. We spoke the names of those we had lost, and those we missed terribly. Kind eyes met ours, that were now too bright. Gentle, warm hands offer reassurance just as the lights begin to dim. The front door is locked and a heavily accented voice asks us to conviene. Slowly we make our way to the back of the store, winding lines take the place of small groups. Our procession passes the guardians, cloaked and veiled and they nod or reach out or stare as we enter the Ritual room. All is dark, we make our way around the circle carefully as candles begin to light our way.

The center of the room is taken up by a huge cauldron, autumn flowers and fruits festoon the corners of the room. One whole side of the room is taken up by huge mirrors, seemingly planted in fresh soil. We place pictures of our beloved dead in turns. Flowers and jewelry and food offerings fill up the spaces between the mirrors. Baby toys, scraps of fabric, antique compacts, brooches that catch the candle light twinkle with the eyes of those who have worn them seemingly starts to breath. I am not the only one who sees this, and we nod at each other knowingly. We offer pennies to the Poppet in the corner and make wishes for our future. We walk the circle slowly, respectfully three, six, nine times. We settle into our spots and the High Priest welcomes the High Priestess. They walk the circle together, radiating strength. Instructions are given, hair is taken down, deep breaths in unison begin our journey.

We turn to the quarters, hail and welcome the elements that create us. The movement begins, slight at first, our voices fill the spaces between the breath. The fire under the cauldron is lit, the heat and light cause everything to flicker, shimmer. Shadows become longer. The wheel of the year is pushed and pulled forward. Suddenly the names of the dead are read our by the Oracles, Seers. The voices that come from them are not their own as the dead push through the veil and return to us. Things are said that no one should know but do, phrases are turned that make the dead recognisable, we hear them, and see them skitter among the shadows. There are tears and voices and swaying and dancing. The din swirls and echos, the ancients speak, the wild hunt is on.

As the fire grows hotter and the cauldron exhales we become one body, one movement, one energy. The walls around us are fading in and out, the air itself sparkles and cracks with electricity. The heat in the room swells and radiates. Controlled chaos, beautiful humanity in all colors and shapes become a blur of love, and life, and death. We know of our end and so we embrace it, celebrate it, hold it in the folds of our black skirts and cloaks and dance with it around the room. Our loved ones hold us one more time, the energy expands until it can not hold. There is a noise, a rumble and then a crack that sound like lightening, we drop. Exhaustion and tears keep force us to stay down. Not one is standing. Silence falls shortly after. the fire burns.

Gentle singing rouses us, we join in in rounds. We sang of oceans and earth and mysteries long since buried. We sing of standing stones and rain storms and the embrace of all that is feminine and holy. It is a gentle quiet chant, and we hold hands and link arms in this tender moment that is just outside of time. the ritual comes to a close, quietly like cat paws on bed of grass. The doors are opened and cold, crisp air rushes in. We walk to the fire pit outside and offer the Poppet to the gods, the old ones. Some are embracing, some are resting heads on shoulders, and some stand alone as sparks float upwards into the blackness. Our tired eyes see our wishes carried away, willed into fruition.

One at time, sometimes in pairs the leaving begins. Drifting away and apart, stepping hesitantly back into the world. Gathering the photos of our loved ones and the treasures brought to honor them, the smell of soil and flowers and woodsmoke reassure us that we are meant to be here. In this time, in this place for those we loved, and those we love still.