For opening the door to those who have gone
Samhain is the Celtic new year—the year ends in darkness, and begins there too. This is the final harvest: what remains in the field after this night is left for the spirits. The veil between worlds thins, and the dead walk close.
In the old practice, hearth fires were extinguished and relit from a communal bonfire on the hilltop—carrying the shared flame back into each home. A place was set at the table for ancestors, and food left out for wandering spirits. To be remembered is to remain; to be named is to be called back, however briefly.
Samhain asks you to open the door. Not to cling, not to summon, but to welcome. The dead do not need your grief. They need your memory. Set a place. Speak the names. Let them know they are not forgotten.
The veil is thin.
The door is open.
I set a place for those who have gone.
I speak your names. I remember you.
You are welcome here.
Eat, drink, rest.
When you go, go well.
The door closes, but the thread remains.
Your intention: