A Samhain Visit from the Ancestors
by Bobbi Blackwell
Being a pagan who also researches her family tree means I’m pretty familiar with many of my ancestors. I know their nicknames, what they did for a living, when they came to our shores, and where they lived as they moved across the country. In some instances, I’m even lucky enough to have photos of them and know some of their stories. Having all this does tend to give my Samhain ritual the feel of a friendly family reunion, so much so that I think of it as my time to sit down and say “hi” to my ancestors, rather than as a regular sabbat celebration. Even with this familiarity, however, I’m not sensitive enough to feel them respond to my greetings. I usually just have a warm sense of satisfaction and reconnection at the end of the ritual. Usually, that is, but with one exception.
That particular year I was attending an open Samhain ritual being offered by a local coven. We gathered at an acting studio for the evening, wearing costumes that were a bit more mythologically inspired than the typical Halloween fare. We chatted, we listened to a synopsis of the ritual, and then the lights were doused, and the utilitarian room was transformed by darkness and the light of the massed candles from the low altar on one wall. The circle was cast and our minds drawn all together with one focus.
We were instructed to sit for the guided meditation, and as one, the circle sank to the wooden floor, with rustlings of long skirts and costume draperies. We closed our eyes, and then there was just breath, the scent of candles and incense, and the calm voice of our priestess. I don’t remember now, so many years later, exactly what her meditation was, but at one point when she was speaking of our ancestors, instead of seeing whatever it was she was describing, I saw in my mind’s eye rows of feet.
The rows were curved, as if a group of people were standing in a loose ring behind me. I could see the different styles of shoes each individual wore, men’s and women’s both, casual and formal, and seemingly from different periods of time, as well. One person was wearing women’s pumps from the 20’s, another loafers from the 40’s, and so on, stretching behind me in no order, until I couldn’t see them clearly anymore. There was a crowd standing there at my back, standing quite calmly on the same floorboards on which I sat cross-legged, and it had no end that I could see.
Maybe I should have been spooked. It was Halloween, after all. But I was in sacred space, and I knew without a doubt that these people standing behind me were my people. My Beloved Dead, all come on this one night, to stand behind me, a solid wall of familial well-being. It didn’t seem to matter to them that they were standing in a pagan circle, for all I felt from them was a palpable sense of loving ownership. You are ours, they seemed to say, and through you, our gifts are still alive in the world. They were my Beloved Dead, and that Samhain, in that circle, I learned with unmistakable certainty that I was their beloved daughter.
I don’t remember much from the rest of that ritual, but I have carried the clear image of that supportive circle of ancestors with me to this day. Whenever I have had something difficult to face, I’m able to recall that I’m not alone. My gods stand beside me at my shoulders, and behind me my ancestors. Knowing this, I’ve been able to call up the strength to accomplish whatever it is that I’ve needed to do. And every year, when I sit down in front of my altar and lay out the offerings to them, I can only grin with pleasure to be meeting with them again.
Sometimes though, sitting there smiling at my ancestor altar, I do wonder if the priestess at that Samhain had asked us to remain standing, would I have seen the faces of my ancestors, instead of just their shoes?