Somewhere in a hidden memory
Images float before my eyes
Of fragrant nights of straw and of bonfires
And dancing till the next sunrise.

Loreena McKennitt
"All Souls Night"

She collects the wood and twigs for the Samhain bonfire in her spare moments musing over each piece. It's a good day to remember what has been and imagine what will be. The end of the year is close and a new year about to begin.

Change is everywhere. She feels it inside, too. Although the sky is pure blue the brisk air snaps at her cheeks. Winter is near. It is the third and final harvest in the Wheel of the Year. Already, grasses, flowers and weeds have lost the strength to stand and are mixing with Her.

The lusciously dank smell of compost is in the air. The Earth is beyond ripe and beginning to decay. The Wheel is turning to the darkest time of the year. Not until the Winter Solstice will the sun begin to grow strong again. She turns her face upward suddenly in need of reassurance and comfort. There. The sun warms her, like a lover's caress. Yes. He will return. The eternal cycle will continue.

But now, it is time for the end. It is the third and final harvest, the meat harvest. The Mother has provided well. The animals are fat and healthy. Those not slaughtered for the Samhain feast and preserved for the months ahead will be given shelter to survive the winter. What will she keep and what will she leave behind this New Year? These thoughts tease her as she gathers up the corners of her skirt to make a pouch for the growing bundle of wood.

In the rustle of the leaves that remain on the branches she hears the whispers of the ancestors who have gone to the Otherworld. She is not frightened. She knows that at the Samhain, the spirit and material worlds mingle. The Dead are honored and loved and take their place in the consciousness of all living beings. Their spirits are prayed for, invited, so they may pass on ancient knowledge. The whispers remind her that even after death there is life. She knows this to be true. Just this morning she dug tiny graves for her bulbs. She covered them carefully with moist soil and tenderly patted leaves on top so they could wait out the winter.

A thick vine squeezes a tree up ahead, circling its trunk like a snake. Like regrets from the past year, she thinks. She will let them go on Samhain Eve so they may no longer crush her spirit. She will keep, tucked close to her heart, the remembered pleasures and things of which she is proud. She will need nourishment for her intentions and hopes for the year ahead. In her heart they will grow and prosper. Just thinking about this makes her feel lighter; joyful.

The wind stirs at her smile. She breathes deeply savoring the smells of the day, the smoke, the damp scent of the woods where the underbrush is thickest and the trees have shed their limbs.

The fresh air intoxicates her and the wood she carries grows heavy. She lays down in a crackle of dead leaves stretching her arms over her head and her cheek on the soft ground. She knows she must sleep to awaken to the knowledge the souls want to share. The dreams that come at moments like this are special she murmurs softly as she floats into the realm where magic happens.

An old woman appears. A thrill of recognition rushes over her. It is the divine Crone. Or, wait. Is it herself aged from the years that lay ahead? Covered with a hood, she can see the old woman's eyes only when the flames of the bonfire dance a little higher. Children run back and forth taunting the blaze with yells and cheers and arms full of wood. The fire begins to roar and crackle and hiss. She watches the fire in the old woman's eyes and is mesmerized.

In them, she sees the fire is a formidable force against the evils and negative energies of the world. It dashes the dark. It explodes with light. It burns for the protection of them all.

The old woman draws closer and beckons her to take her hand. It is coarse and bony and cool. It shows the wear of having comforted and healed for many, many years. It feels very familiar. Her voice is as old and cracked as her face and her grip tightens as she bends in near to be heard.

"You must be at ease and feel the joy of a new year about to begin. Put all past sorrows behind you. Bury them. They have served their purpose. It is time to rejoice at the wonder of being an echo of the cycle. You are the Mother. You carry life inside you at all times.

Even in the darkest time. Even in winter when it looks like the Mother is dying. It must happen. Even we have seasons. We are the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. All follow the cycle. We die, so we may be born to life again. Go find the light."

She feels just the softest nudge on her arm and startled, awakens with her eyes wide open. The sunlight sifts through the trees. She lowers her eyelids to a comfortable gaze at the brightness and lets a smile spread across her face and a sigh escape her heart. She is ready to begin, again.