Places aren't haunted. People are haunted.
- Melinda Gordon, Ghost Whisperer
Michelle wrote recently (Oct 22/23 postings) about the thinning of the veil that happens this time of year. Spirits walk among us, some on their way Home, others lost, yet others just hanging around waiting for something or staying to finish another thing. Most times we don't notice them much, 'cept those that have the Sight and can't turn away. It's a privacy thing, letting Spirits do what they need to do without interference from this world. Some have the good sense and manners to leave well enough alone, others prefer to meddle and say it's a Calling.
I find myself amidst ghosts of my past, most called up first in memory, then through email or on the phone. Past relationships drifted into gauziness, hooked on a finger, seen slantwise on the periphery, then brought forward for a touch, a glance, a smile. Most bring good memories, connections to a more rooted past, to communities formed and enjoyed. Others bring sadness for lost opportunities, pain brought by poor decision making and lack of faith.
What rituals shall we make to release these ghosts, still living, yet no longer central to our web? Do we welcome them back and invoke flesh and blood, building new ties, creating new memories? Or do we give offerings in the hope of forgiveness for past wrongs and wishes for healing?
Each ghost has his/her story, each memory a place in time, a space in the heart carved sometimes tenderly, sometimes with thorns. It's a time of honoring all those who have shared their lives with us, given us lessons sweet and bitter, illuminated our lives either in the presence or by their passing.
Like the last fruits of the harvest, I gather wisps and tendrils of rememberings, taking in what is still needful, giving the rest to the Hallows fire to be released back into the Cycle once more. Old Coyote sits near the fire, smoking his pipe with Old Juan Tamad, the first one telling stories about the Star Woman he once loved, the second one nodding, lips pouting slightly with memory of a woman with a silver comb in her hands. And somewhere the Coffee Gods grin with yellowed teeth and watch the moon rise high and wait for the owl to who-who Good Eve.