A Samhain story

Sitting with legs splayed, quietly contemplating the season, the tools before me, simple tools for the coming ritual, a hardwood rod and carved softwood board, a pile of dry grass and a stack of small twigs and larger pieces of wood. Not typical ritual tools but the tools that have defined the development of mankind beyond the beasts, the tools that allow man to make fire….

I clear my mind as I focus my attention on taking up the rod and positioning the tip carefully into the carved slot of the friction board, the sexual symbolism of the movement and position not lost on me, the potency of the act of creating fire linking in my subconscious with the act of creating life, that most sacred of unions between the male and female energies.

I grip the rod firmly between my outstretched hands and slowly at first begin to rub the rod twisting it and pushing down into the receiving slot, the vigour of my movements becoming more and more frenetic as the rod seats properly within the groove. My mind, focused on this one task is freed of all other thoughts and fears and images start to form unbidden, soft voices at the very limits of audibility whisper, and as the first wisps of smoke start to rise from the wood strange shapes twist in the cold air, faces long past, animal and human forms, strange, misshapen creations of a still mind.

The friction of the wood creates a dark dust of carbonised punk, and within the dust as the heat of the friction rises a coal begins to form, glowing softly red within the inky black pile. I lean forward gently collecting the glowing ember, holding my breath as I ease it from the softwood board into the pile of dry grass tinder, cushioning and wrapping it carefully, before exhaling, blowing softly at first then harder as the heat from the ember causes the grass to catch, the voices rising in volume, in tone, in urgency as the point of combustion  draws near, hundreds, thousands of voices, and the voices become clear, the connection between my act of tribute of lighting my fire and the acts carried out by my ancestors forging the bridge between worlds.

The dry grass catches, flames leap and are transferred almost reverentially to the pile of small twigs, my attention focused as I softly give breath to the fire watching it catch as the voices reach a crescendo before falling silent as I sit back, the warmth of the fire chasing the chill night from my bones, the flames dancing making patterns before my eyes, the smoke rising, curling into the starry sky, and as my mind opens and my spirit reaches out from the world of the living one final voice, soft as down, faint as a sigh, calls my name and I respond…..

“Hello Mom, I miss you”