For the ancient Celts, October signaled the end of their Autumn and opened the door for the shadowed half of the Celtic year.

Samhain (which literally means “summer has ended”) marks the final feast day of the season, and the convergence of the shadows and the weather inclined the Celts to believe that spirits were able to walk among the living causing mischief, curses, and sometimes blessings.

Practically it meant bringing in the cattle and the sheep down from the summer hillside and into the byre and the stable, now full of the harvested hay brought in throughout August and September.

It was also the time to slaughter the animals and prep them to last as far through winter as possible with salts, cold storage, cottaging, and drying.

The very last bits of barley, wheat, turnips, and apples were picked from the now naked fields, because come November the faeries would start breathing on all the fruit, frosting them and making them inedible.

While the sun still glowed it was also time to get the wood and peat stacked and ready for use. No one wanted to chop and gather in the frigid days coming.

This was a joyous month for the Celts, as the whole family was regularly gathered in the house and the barn: baking, salting, prepping, and preserving, envisioning the coming winter feasts and the cozy days ahead.

The summer sun now became the warm, dim room, and the noisy insects would be replaced with long talks and stories from family and visiting friends.

October has come.

As our days grow darker and colder, I’m drawn again to my Celtic past and the rituals of these days.

Have you ever bobbed for apples at a Halloween party?

This game is actually ancient, and hails from the Celtic Christians who married the practices of the past with the realities of the present.

The apple was known as the fruit of temptation in Christian circles, but was also a harvest fruit. In the ancient Celtic world, you’d bob for apples to determine who would be married next. The person with the fruit would be visited in their dreams by their true love.

When Christianity came to the Celts, the game took on a more festive Biblical character, as it was associated with the idea of temptation in the days of shadows. Lust, after all, was bad…right?

Every practice has a practical history.

“The reason I far prefer autumn to spring: in spring we look to the ground, but in autumn we look to the heavens.”

-Soren Kierkegaard

On the Autumnal Equinox, my mind is brought back to those ancient Celts who knew the Earth was not just alive, but provided us with secrets on how to live.

Balance, Beloved, is more than hard to find…it is also hard to keep. The Earth only finds it twice a year, and is only able to keep it for 24 hours at a time.

But when it does, everything changes!

At the Vernal Equinox the world springs forth with color and newness.

And today? Well, Camus said that Autumn is a “second spring,” where “every leaf is a flower” beginning to blaze.

For the Celts, with over half of the fields cleared by now, it was time to take stock of the harvest, both within the barn of the heart and the barn outback. They would prepare for winter, using what the year so far has given to plot the next phase of life.

Blessed Equinox! Lean into the balance a bit, and learn how to live.

As the weather began to cool, the Celts spent more and more time in doors telling stories and singing songs. As we approach the equinox, my morning thoughts landed here briefly today.

Songs, and instruments, were (and are!) very important to Irish and Scottish families. Many families employed a harpist full-time to be available for parties, dinners, and to compose and perform at weddings and funerals. As Gaelic culture waned, these professional harpers weren’t able to be privately employed any longer, and became wandering bards exchanging songs and stories for meals and a bed for the night.

It is said that Irish appreciate three skills in particular: the ability to compose a clever verse, music on the harp, and the art of shaving a face.

All seem worthy of some reverence.

“We were born on a lightning bolt, grew up in the ocean salt,
We’ve traveled through ten thousand lives.
So if ever I can’t see the magic around me,
please take my hands off my eyes.”

-“Through the Ages” by Cloud Cult

Well, the sun’s not so hot in the sky today
and you know I can see summertime slipping on away.
A few more geese are gone, a few more leaves turning red,
but the grass is as soft as a feather in a featherbed.
So I’ll be king and you’ll be queen, our kingdom’s gonna be this little patch of green.
Won’t you lie down here right now in this September grass?
Won’t you lie down with me now, September grass.

-James Taylor, “September Grass”

“A Cryptic Sign” by Denise Levertov

August. The woods are silent.
No sway of treetops, no skitter of squirrels,
no startled bird. Sky fragments
in rifts of canopy,
palest silken blue.
In the crook
of an old and tattered snag
something gleams amid the stillness,
drawing the gaze: some bit of heartwood
so long exposed, weather and time
have polished it, as centuries
of awed lips, touching
a hand of stone, rub it
to somber gleaming.

In early August my ancient Celtic ancestors would celebrate the third great festival of the year, Lughnasadh, or “the assembly of Lugh,” the Celtic sun god.

August 1st marks the beginning of Autumn for the Celts, and so this was essentially a festival to give thanks for the harvest that will be collected over the coming months.

Yes, it was giving thanks for something that hadn’t happened yet…sometimes you have to bank on hope, right?

This festival became Christianized in the Middle Ages, commonly called “Feast of First Fruits.”

In these days the ancient Celts would ween the new lambs so that the parents would mate again, giving more lambs in the Spring. They’d begin harvesting, especially the now ripe gooseberries and billberries.

They’d also make something called a Lammas Loaf (a derivation off of the festival name), a loaf of bread baked and shared off of the first wheat harvested from the fields. They’d often make the bread into different shapes, like wheat stalks, owls, or “John Barleycorn” shapes (sometimes known as The Wicker Man), a legendary figure that often stands for the harvest god/sun god.

Since Lughnasadh falls directly opposite of Imbolc on the Celtic wheel, and Imbolc (“in the womb”) was seen as primarily feminine, Lughnasadh was seen as a very masculine festival, with games and outdoor competitions, kind of like a precursor to our State Fairs here in the United States, with rides and feats of strength.

At its heart, Lughnasadh is a reminder that everything dies and is reborn. “Unless a grain of wheat dies,” the Christ says, “it remains a single grain…”

So we give thanks in the right season, banking on hope.

In the heat of waning July days, the ancient Celts would ready themselves for the August festivals and the beginning of the harvest.

They would take these final days to spend intentional time resonating with the world around them, relaxing in the earth and seeking out sacred spots to bless and in which to be blessed.

You might say this ancient practice is a precursor to our ideas of “vacation” these days. Summer rest is not something we invented, Beloved, but inherited through the long echoes of phenomenological rhythms that pulse throughout the looping threads of time.

Celtic author Mara Freeman notes three ways to honor the earth in these last July days that fall on the cusp of transition.

First, you can give thanks. Find a quiet spot in nature, breath deeply, listen carefully, and be grateful for what is around you. She notes that “a sacred site does not have to be famous or located in a distant country. It can also be a quiet, secret place you have found in the woods or, if you live in the city, a favorite old tree in a local park.” (from Kindling the Celtic Spirit)

Secondly, do some clean up. Whether it is in your backyard, along a well-hiked stream, your local park, or even just bush pruning around the house, caring for nature is an act of sacrifice to the very Earth who will, in the coming months, sacrifice fruit for us. Pruning, by the way, is necessary for many plants, and should be done with the plant in mind, and should not primarily be about how your yard looks from the street.

Finally, take a pilgrimage. Journey to a place where the Earth has been damaged or is in danger of being defiled, calling attention to it. Whether it is the pipeline in the Dakotas, over-fishing off the coasts, or even unwelcome infringement on a natural prairie in your little pocket of creation, walking there, seeing what is happening with your own eyes, and calling attention to it is an act of power and grace. Or, as one theologian puts it, “an actively mobilized process of bearing witness to woundedness and to the mysterious possibilities of the sacred.”

In these acts, the whole Earth becomes an altar upon which our attention, our love, and our gratitude is sacrificed. These acts have rippled throughout the cosmos from our ancient parents until today.

How will you add to the wave?