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The coven has a sweet (but deep) little Rite of Samhain planned for this Saturday night—down on an island at the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers, if you can stand it—but it's looking like I probably won't be there.

Why not? Possible Covid exposure.

I'll spare you the story. In the end, it all comes down to a bunch of old guys who, being Trumpers, don't take precautions on principle. It's hard to believe anyone could get to be so old and still be so stupid.

Oh well. Years back, back before I knew anyone, back when I was still a Pagan Alone, come Samhain I'd go down to the woods, light the fire, and make the magic.

And it was always the real thing.

This year, it looks like I'll be going back to my roots. That's always a type of renewal. Besides, no matter how well-covened you are—as gods know I am—we're always all solitaires first. "Thou mayest not be a witch alone"? Not so, say I.

Mayest not? In fact, thou must.

Come sunset, on the Eve of November, I'll climb down the cliff—just like I did when I was in high school—light the fire, and make the magic.

I closed my newly operated eye and looked at the TV screen through the one with the cataract. Then I closed that eye and reversed the process. I was amazed! The new eye saw a bright, sparkling image. The untouched eye saw a greyish greenish screen of dull colors. I had had no idea what I was missing before I had my first cataract operation. When something begins gradually, it is more difficult to notice. I had had the cataracts for some time before they were considered ready to be removed. I knew I needed more and more light to see by and had trouble distinguishing some colors, but thought nothing of it.

I'm a winter baby and I love the cold weather. I love the darker days. I love the longer nights snuggling under blankets and nesting in. This time of the year calls me deeper into my physicality. There is a cold that settles deep within my bones and it doesn't matter if I turn on the heat or put on my clothes because this experience is not a physiological occurrence. This is not because of the change in weather and the fact that I have arthritis.  No, it is much deeper than that. I have come to recognize with its persistent regularity at Samhain’s tide, that this is a form of preparation. 

It awakens a knowledge meant for me to find my place of Being that moves into the underworld and calls to the ancestors. The veils thin and a more palpably present space of transition opens between the living and the dead and the realization that all that remains for sometime after the flesh, the muscle and organs all fall away, the remnants that proof of a physical existence are only the bones.

In the dream, the coven has gathered, ready to begin the Rite of Samhain.

Night has fallen. Turning, I see deer on the hillside: first two, then more, then many.

We have visitors, I say.

We watch them watching us. The Deer People have come to witness our sabbat.

As we watch, one by one, the deer take human form.

Every Moonday I share a Soul Reading Video and Blog with the help of my hand painted oracle decks to guide you through the week ahead. This week there is a Full Moon on Saturday in conjunction with the Witches’ New Year: Samhain (or Halloween). This is a time when the veil between worlds is thin and we welcome in our ancestors and wise guides from the Other Side to share any messages they might have for us as we in turn honour them with gifts of food and drink, photos, memorabilia and memories, heartfelt and magickal.

Well, no wonder the US is going to Hel.

Did you know that there are more witches in the US (1.5 million) than Presbyterians (1.4 million)?

Did you know that pagans now constitute .4 percent of the American population?

No, neither did I, until a friend sent me a link to a conservative website called Christian Post.

Are these figures to be trusted? Who knows? (Me, I'd trust the Pew Research figures over the rest, but maybe that's just me.)

What astounds me most about the article is its supposed concern for all those poor, lost witch and pagan souls out there.

Considering the fact that the Evangelical electorate of America has already sold its own collective soul to a devil named D-nald Tr-mp in exchange for political power, it seems to me an arch-hypocrisy to be worrying about anyone else's.

Hey, nazzes: Maybe you should see to the log in your own eye before you start decrying other people's splinters.

The Archdruid was dying.

From all over Gaul, druids gathered to his bedside to ease his passage from this world to the next. As they stood around him chanting, a novice brought him a bowl of fresh milk, but the Archdruid refused it.

The novice took the milk to the hearth, warmed it, and stirred in some honey. As he poured the milk back into the bowl, he spied a jar of apple brandy that had been a gift from the local chieftain, and added a goodly amount to the warmed milk-and-honey.

He held the bowl to the lips of the Archdruid, who drank it down to the last drop.

“Old Father, do you have any final words of wisdom to guide us after you have gone Behind the Sunset?” asked a senior druid.

With difficulty, the Archdruid raised himself on his elbow. An otherwordly light shone from his eyes.