Samhain - Talking to the Dead.

The uplifting power of a chat with ancestors by candlelight.

The mist has drawn close to the window pane, as if peeping in as I light the candle. It is an ochre yellow, like the walls of a Tudor building, and made of two strands that curve around each other.

I light a match and hold it to the bottom of the candle, placing it in the small bowl and holding it steady. At first, it lists slightly but then becomes sturdier. Another match. I hold it to the wick, currently joined in an arc across the entwined candles. I watch as the large flickering orange fire subsides and becomes two tear-shaped flames, burning side by side.

Around the candles are various photographs. These are pictures of my dead people. Grandma, Grandad, Uncle Al (Ow), Aunty June, Dad, Ivy. In the photos, they mostly look happy. I place my hands on the surface. Bring each person to mind, look at their faces encased in matt and gloss finishes. They are black and white; they are colour; they are immortalised in a tiny second in time. I stare at the twin flames for a moment, open my notebook, pen poised. I write a short note to them all. Feelings, wishes, love, regrets.

A couple of weeks ago I dreamt of my maternal grandmother. In my dream, I realised she was alive and I hadn’t seen her for ages. I knew she’d be upset by this. When I saw her, I told her I was sorry I hadn’t seen her for so long. We hugged. The jumper she was wearing was incredibly soft. I told her I loved her and she said she loved me too. The dream, when I awoke, felt like a gift that had been left to me, bestowed in the darkness.

My Great Aunt June appeared two nights later. She was waiting for a taxi in the street and I was worried about her going home alone. The taxi left and we were stranded. June began dancing and then giggled, her infectious humour making me laugh along with her.

I tell them of these dreams in my notes. Some are harder to write; I wish they had been happier, that I could have eased their pain. But throughout, there is love behind the moments of sorrow.

Perhaps it is faintly ridiculous that I sit here writing about this ritual that brings me comfort when I am a signed up humanist, when I proclaim that I am an atheist and have zero belief in an afterlife. Yet, sometimes I indulge this fairy tale. I wonder if the times I dream of those who are gone are crossing some boundary or energy field.

Most of all, these people shaped and formed me. I carry them with me, grateful for having had them in my life. The ritual seems to have opened up something in me - a sense that I am really alive, really here on the earth. It reinforces that our customs and traditions around death are really for the living, for those left behind in flesh and breath.

I have heard that this is also the time to figure out what you want to cast off or leave behind and what you want to emerge in the Spring of the new year; like seeds you choose to neglect or nurture. Giving yourself the time and space to consider this and to first clear out room for what you would like to grow feels meaningful, far more so than the often hurried and superficial tradition of New Year’s Resolutions. I message my friend, S, who I am meeting for dinner. We agree that we will discuss this over our meal.

I emerge from the train station into a crisp, fresh darkness punctuated by lights from bars and restaurants. I walk through the streets, sometimes accompanied by a zombie or werewolf and maybe, just maybe, by those who I loved, and love still - in life and death.