Samhain Is Only Just Beginning. Trust Yourself in the Darkness.

Dia Daoibh, gach duine. Hello everyone. And Oíche Shamhna Shona Daoibh, or Happy Halloween as the day has come and gone. But for me, and many other folk practitioners, Oíche Shamhna (Eve of Samhain) is only the beginning of an entire season that the rest of the world has moved on from. I did not pull any decorations out until the 31^st, nor did I throw a party like I wanted to. The reality is, I was just too damn tired.

I love autumn, but it often makes me intensely depressed as we move to the darker parts of the year. I’m sure a lot of you are no stranger to this phenomena. My prolonged unemployment has not helped my mental state as I’ve utilized a lot of these last few months furiously filling out every application that does not ask me to be an AI prompter, taking classes, writing this newsletter, fretting about finances, and trying to make something, anything work.

Most people tell me that my lack of call backs is just how the job market is right now, and I understand the logic of that statement. It does not, however, make me feel any better about any of it. Not when I have a mortgage and my state is trying to run me and my wife out of town, the state, the country, and every social safety net that might help is being gutted. I cannot emphasize enough the existential dread that fills my thoughts every waking hour of every waking day.

What I hold is so much grief and anger at the people that put me in this position because I did everything right, like a lot of people do. I went to work every day and did everything that was ever asked of me, and more. It's one of the hardest things I have grappled with in these last few months. And it really broke my ability to trust anyone or anything because I really trusted the people that make the decisions.

It's even shaken some of my faith in myself and Brigid, and that’s not her fault. Over and over she shows me the same cards: reverse VII of Pentacles, reversed Resilience (she threw me this twice in a week), a VII of Swords. My spreads are swirling with doubt and reassurance, and yet I still spiral into nonverbal spells where I hide in my room, wishing that instead of being here I was at my grandmother’s house, eating soft-scrambled eggs that only she knew how to make, with my blanket wrapped around me, waiting for when her shows were over so I could play Spyro the Dragon on her Playstation. (She was a big gamer, my grandmother.) How am I supposed to trust that all will be well when all I can do is sit at home and wait for calls that don’t come?

But the first person who warned me was Brigid. Long before there was any whiff that my job would be gone, I did a reading for myself on the summer solstice. The U.S. had just attacked Iran, and I was panicked. I knew Monday would bring a deluge of news to sort through at work, and I was feeling a crushing sense of guilt that I wasn’t doing enough beyond my job to create a better world. I thought the cards were telling me that I was self-deluded and distracted. That’s how I read that very first VII of Swords. So I did another spread, one about crossroads and actions that I could be taking. I followed one path, clear and victorious, that started with a card that is specific to the deck I use: “The Artist.” I asked Brigid what this was about, and then I pulled the card that nobody wants to get: the Tower, reversed. A time of upheaval draws near.

I asked everyone I knew how they would read this extensive spread, as I was still confused by it, thinking that she was speaking to me about a macro-level of global events. Two folk practitioners advised that I might want to make some wards of protection. I did. A few weeks later, I was unemployed, though, I’m not convinced the wards didn’t do their job. I still carry them with me. 

I am being extremely vulnerable here for a few reasons. It’s Samhain, and so it’s necessary to talk about our ancestors and spiritual guides. It’s a time for transitions and vulnerability. The veil is thin between our world and the Other World, exposing us to thoughts, dreams, wishes, spirits that maybe don’t touch us as closely in other parts of the year as they do now. I don’t think a lot of people think of me as a highly sensitive person that struggles mentally and emotionally every single day. This sensitivity was shamed out of me throughout my life, and so I suppress it, trying to maintain composure until it inevitably bubbles over. I’m working on it, but in times of stress old habits really die hard. 

Like I said, Samhain marks the beginning of a period time in which we move to the dark part of the year. In this darkness, we’re compelled to seek the light, but in a lot of ways that runs counter to what Samhain represents. The Cailleach comes and blows the leaves from the trees to mulch the soil for spring, the animals gather their food supplies to overwinter. It’s about rooting yourself in the darkness. And, a chairde, I have been deep in the soil this season.

It wasn’t until Oíche Shamhna that I dug around in the closet for my decorations, I put my simmer pot on to cleanse the house while I tidied, and I pulled down my Brigid’s altar to make space for an ancestral one. (Don’t worry. Brigid is hanging out on my desk.) My wife and I handed out candy, and I offered my cards up to any who were curious about them while knocking back some Four Roses in honor my great-grandfather. Of course, I had to teach every trick-or-treater about the Irish origins of Halloween and how to say bob nó bia (trick or treat). I spent time with friends at a Hobbit-themed birthday party. I wrote lots of angry poetry. All of these things grounded me in the darkness and a deep sense of equilibrium has since taken hold of my body.

A friend of mine moved away in the spring, and gifted me a huge mealy sage plant. A hailstorm annihilated it in the early summer. I was sure it wouldn’t come back, but it has weathered every bit of drought and wind since, and has come back fuller than ever—all because the roots in the dark of the soil remained intact. I feel a lot like that, especially as this week will mark my thirty-third birthday. How fitting that I should be born in the month of Samhain.

Samhain is a time for divination, and so when Brigid threw out her Trust card this week, I knew that was what I needed to write about. She is not the only entity that has told me that a path is being cleared for me, and dammit if she’s anything but consistent. A lot of people have lied to my face in the last few months, but Brigid? No, she is refreshingly honest, if not frustrated that I do not heed her reassurances. I’m anxious, OK?

This card comes from the many stories in which Brigid embodied trust, particularly through animal companionship. From this deck, “Goddess Brigid had an ancient breed of wild pig and Triath, was the king of these boars who had the great Plain of Triethrine named after him.” Indeed, many animals are associated with Brigid, including foxes, swans, cows, and sheep. There’s an old adage, I think, about how children and animals always know who to trust intuitively.

Who, or what, do you trust in your life? What institutions did you once believe in that are now proving their foundations are shaky at best, nonexistent at worst? Do you have dreams that you have forgotten about because you didn’t trust those dreams would manifest?

Trust that life, the universe, God, the ancestors, whatever it is you believe in, will provide what you need. In a recent ancestor reading, my diviner reiterated many of the things Brigid herself has told me over and over again, but through the guidance of my ancestors. I don’t always trust myself to read things rightly, but I trust this person, and I trust the ancestor whose home was my safest place that said it. And because of that, I know I can trust my intuition.

It’s often easier to trust the light than it is the dark, but trust this time is for you to embrace the liminality of possibility.

Beir Bua,
Sam

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