Brigid’s Ritual, Part 13

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After months of endless dry sunny days and no rain to speak of, the clouds finally break for All Hallow’s Eve. The rain pours down on the back porch roof, and thunder rumbles in the distance as we light candles and incense in preparation. The flickering lights feel cozy with the rain and darkness all around. We sit on cushions with the west quarter candle between us. West represents fall, the dark time of the year, the emotions and undercurrents in life, and the mysteries we can’t always see or touch.

After inviting the presence of our patron Gods and Goddesses, we begin speaking the names of recent dead –starting with my partner’s father, and Ari, my familiar. In our house animals count as family, thus cherished dead. From there, we include famous dead people from history –Joan of Arc or Elizabeth 1, for instance. Sometimes we pay respects to groups of people –the witches tortured and burned during the Renaissance, the innocent victims of WW11, the Covid dead, or Ukranians today in the war with Russia. And every year I say “I’m sorry” to the millions of animals who live and die in slaughterhouses, and to abandoned euthanized pets in shelters across the country. I love this holiday, for the opportunity to voice sorrow for casualties of violence and cruelty. This year I honor the women who have died from sepsis and organ failure as a result of the abortion bans in red states.

We ask our own ancestors to help us through the days and months ahead. Tomorrow our country will choose a door. One door leads to a dystopia so awful I can’t stand to rent out space to it in my mind. The other door I fervently hope for. Progress, expanded rights, the separation of church and state, freedom and constitutional democracy –this is the only reasonable choice. Our first woman president will lead us through the portal to a better United States.

When we choose the better door, however, we will surely face a backlash from maga cultists. As the specter of white male rule dissipates before their eyes, and as their leaders refuse to concede and scream about rigged elections –the mages will not go gracefully. We ask our beloved dead to guide us in the troubled days and months ahead.

Finally we exchange readings. The dead can speak to us through the Tarot or the Runes as they wish. My partner casts four Runes for me, and I will share this message from the beyond: after the chaos will be joy. I smile. We survived the civil war, the America First movement of the 1930’s, the McCarthy Era of the 1950’s, the John Birch Society in the 60’s, and now –Gods willing –we will prevail over Christian nationalists.

We thank the Gods and Goddesses, the ancestors and deserving dead, and we blow out the candles. Tomorrow is a big day, working the polls from dawn to dark and joining friends for a watch party at a local bar afterwards. I’m ready now. The rain and thunder, and the ritual of including the dead and their wisdom with life’s challenges today –these things nourish and recharge my spirit.

Laurel Owen, November 2024