Solitary Samhain – Simple ways to honour the deceased.

It probably doesn’t make much sense that I live in a bustling vibrant city full of witches and weirdos yet still practice alone, but I have a social anxiety disorder so here we are. There’s really no reason I can’t tuck the kids into bed and leave them under the watchful eye of their dad while I rock on up to one of the many gatherings advertised on meetup.com, but anxiety always finds a way to dissuade me.

I  do miss practising with a circle. The crushing loneliness is the only thing I don’t love about being Wiccan. In recent years I’ve been confident enough to get my family and friends involved in my religious practices, which is awesome, but when your crew is working off palm cards and you’re trying to be respectful of their faiths, you can’t get into deeper workings.

Samhain, however, is a time I’m able to embrace that loneliness.

As the kids grow up, I’d love to invite them to share my circle. To share the stories of their ancestors; their grandparents and great grands that they’ll never meet. It’s a time to teach about respect and grief, a time to remove the fear surrounding the inevitability of death. But even then, I suspect my main ritual will be alone, or like this year, a collection of small moments in front of my ancestor altar spaced throughout the day.

The wheel of the year myth with its many variations is common amongst Wiccans. I believe (in a symbolic sense, not a literal one,) that the Earth/ Mother Goddess grieves now. She’s recently witnessed her Husband/ Consort die (Perhaps through sacrifice, perhaps just because of time.) The wound to her soul is debilitating, but she must live on for the baby she carries in her womb – The Sun/Son God of promise, who will be born again at Yule. It seems so simple, yet when you meditate on it, it isn’t.

Beyond meditation, dumb suppers, and divination—all popular activities for Samhain—I wanted to share a few ideas with you. Ways to connect to your ancestors that might bring you comfort, even if you’re not walking the same spiritual path as me.

• Participate in an activity they loved. My Mum and I used to read together. In the last months before her death, she couldn’t read for herself anymore, so I would read to her. Now I light candle, and read aloud at my altar, sending that energy out to wherever she may be now. (I’m aware she isn’t hanging around, so please refrain for saying “she’s standing behind you,” or any nonsense in the comments, please.)
• Leave offerings, or share with them a consumable they loved. Mum and Pop were both big coffee drinkers. They were also heavy smokers. Leaving a lit cigarette and a hot cup on my altar (and a window open, because yuck,) has always been a simple and effective way to honour them. It also gives me a chance to practice non-judgement, which is a tough lesson for me, I admit.
• Handle objects or wear clothes or jewellery they spent a lot of time with in life. Remember why those things mattered to them. Where they came from. What experiences those items were a part of.
• Play music. Bonus points if you can perform it yourself. “Little Drummer Boy” isn’t just a sweet Christmas song, it shows us a legitimate way to honour the spirits, both living and dead.
• Donate to a cause they cared about.
• Recall, and record, the stories they told. I never knew my great grandparents, and I don’t remember my father. The only way I know those people is by the stories told about them. Samhain is a great time to remember Pop’s mum—how she’d throw her broom down hospital hill to trip her naughty kids up (also, no one would be game to do that now. Very happy we no longer beat our children!) and his dad, a tough old nugget who’d cut the stone bruises on your feet open. I loved hearing about how Pop wore his first fiance’s high heels to break them in for her, or how Nan made Mum a special beach poncho from her best towel so her daughter wouldn’t feel left out.
• Watch your favourite ghost movie. Write out your favourite Samhain/grief related poetry into your BOS or diary.
• If they hurt you a lot during their life, consider crafting a release ritual so that you can understand, forgive, and move on; freeing yourself to enjoy the better memories.
• Reach out to other family members or friends who knew them. Talk about them. Keep their memory alive. I guarantee you, in fifty years you friend will still remember the baby she lost. She’ll remember her dad and hope that he’s proud. She’ll still think about her first familiar, and wonder if they are waiting on the other side. You’re not tearing open a wound; you’re giving the gift of remembering. Of acknowledging. You’re sharing the grief. Being supportive.  Death isn’t something you ever get over. I am always going to be infuriated that I didn’t get to say goodbye to Messiah. I am always going to cry over the fact my goddesses don’t have my mum there on Grandparent’s day at school. And when someone says “your Mum would be proud of you,” particularly if they knew her well, that means everything to me. Don’t be afraid to say their names* (unless there’s a cultural reason not to.)
• Have a good cry.
• Go through the photo albums.
• Polish or dust their urns, maintain their graves. Invite people along, if you’re up to it. Earlier this year my family and I went to the headstone laying of my friend’s little boy. I never had the chance to meet him—was too naïve and insensitive to realise how badly I’d regret that—but was honoured to be invited to mark his birthday and support his family. Caring about people who changed our lives but who are now gone is only weird if you make it so. Make it beautiful and fun instead.

I’d love to hear your ideas or listen to your stories in the comments.
May the combined light of our altar candles lead those loving spirits home.

Miriam Cumming has been practising witchcraft for half her life and writing novels for longer. She has two published Wiccan fiction novels for teens, and is working on the next two in the series… or would be if Game of Thrones wasn’t so damn interesting. (And a little seasonally appropriate, come on!)

This post is dedicated to Jacob. You’ve touched more lives than some people who walk the earth ‘til old age. Rest in peace.