Season of the Witch, part 7

We Are the Dead

Halloween, All Souls Day, The Day of the Dead

Yesterday, on Halloween, the dead walked among us. Our children were transformed into ghosts and ghouls, skeletons and spectres. They turned into animals, heroes, legends, mythical creatures, and all manner of wild, improbable beings. We walked in the graveyard and scared each other with horror stories. For a brief moment we remembered that all around us are the forgotten dead themselves, crowding close in the city streets, whispering to us in the forest, awakening us in the middle of the night. We remember, and we do not remember, that our children are still fresh from the other side of the veil, still hold within them the memories of being dead, of coming and going between the two worlds.

Once upon a time every day was the Day of the Dead and the dead themselves were never frightening. Our ancestors knew that the entire world was created from nothing but the bodies of those souls that had come before them. The very ground beneath their feet was the body of the dead. Gather up a handful of dirt and you are holding the dead of your land--the vanished flowers, the debris of long-gone animals, withered mountains, sea creatures from millions of years ago. The whole earth is nothing but the body of the dead.

And our ancestors were still in conversation with the dead--seeking their guidance, telling their stories, listening to their wisdom, feeling them beneath their feet, communing with them in their dreams, recognizing them in the birds and the animals, the trees and the flowers.

I am not frightened of the dead. That is what it means to be a witch.

I am often horrified by the living and terrified of what atrocities reasonable men can justify to themselves in chrome board rooms far from the ground. But I am not frightened of the spirits who show up in the middle of the night. I am not frightened in graveyards or "haunted houses." No. I know that the living have tried for centuries to silence our conversation with the unseen world and to make us frightened of it.

Because our confidence comesfrom the dead, our wisdom and our power.

Our children, too, are the dead returned to us. Can we listen to them, again, as our elders come back? Can we hear the messages they are bringing forth form the other side? These days, when the veil is thin, they are reminding us of who we really are and who we have always been.

We are the dead. We are all the dead come back.

Life is not a mercilless short story that begins in Genesis and ends in Apocalypse. It is a long story, circling through time, in which there is always enough time for healing and love, returns and reunions. This generous long story, remembering it, telling it, listening to it, is what it means to relaim our witch story.

I invite you all to sober up from civilization and reclaim the long story of our souls. Let us resume our conversation with the unseen world. Let us find our way back to the ways of the natural world.

Remember that every day is the day of the dead. Remember that the entire earth is nothing but an altar to our ancestors.

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