Portals
I found it intriguing to be traveling in Ireland at the end of October, so close to Halloween. Halloween has its roots in the Celtic festival of Samhain, which marked the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. This time of year, is considered by many to be a liminal time when the veil between the living and the dead is thinner.
Samhain was observed by the Druids from sunset on October 31 until sunset on November 1. It included the wearing of costumes, the making of vegetable sacrifices and huge communal bonfires. Around the bonfires you told the stories of those who had died, knowing that their spirits lingered close by.
It was this time of year that we visited the Burren in County Clare. The name Burren comes from the Gaelic “Boirinn” which means rocky place. The Burren is made of limestone, and shale formed some 330 million years ago as the bed of an inland sea. People were living on the Burren over 12,500 years ago. It is filled with ritual sites including circular farms, cairns and ring forts.
One of the places we stopped was Poulnabrone Dolmen, which means “hole of sorrow”, a sacred burial place. We walked in the pouring rain down the short trail to this portal. It was a burial site amid pasture with cattle grazing all around it.
I was drawn to this a very ancient portal on a cairn. It was made up of three standing portal stones that support a large horizontal capstone. It was a neolithic burial site for at least 33 people from 3800 – 3200 BCE. It seems that the bodies were taken elsewhere to decompose before the bones were transferred to the site. There were men, women and children buried here. Only one of the adults was over the age of 40
In addition to the bones of those buried here archeologists also found polished stone arrowheads, beads and pottery shards. I stood in the rain wondering about the souls of those buried here. What had their lives been like? What food had been shared on those pottery shards? Who had worn the beads?
I also thought of a poem by May Sarton called Late Autumn.
On random wires the rows of summer swallows
Wait for their lift off. They will soon be gone
Before all Saints and before All Hallows
The changing time when we are most alone
Disarmed, too vulnerable, full of dread,
And once again as naked as the trees.
Before the dark, precarious days ahead
And troubled skies over tumultuous seas
When we are so transparent to the dead.
There is no wall. We hear their voices speak,
And as the small birds wheel off overhead
We bend toward the earth suddenly weak.
How to believe that all will not be lost
Our flowers too not perish in the blight?
Love, leave me your South against the frost.
Say hush to my fears and warm the night . .
Love, leave me your South against the frost. I think the Celts were on to something when they knew the importance of storytelling around a bonfire to say hush to our fears and warm the night. We need to remember those who have gone before us.
In a few days most of us will gather around family tables to give thanks. A time again for storytelling and sharing the love that lives on. There will be love that we can taste on our own pottery shards. I know that our family will eat pumpkin pie remembering my brother-in-law Jeff. Jeff was the one who used to always make our pies. His daughter now carries on his tradition.
Today at the bible study at the jail I began our time together by asking the women what their favorite Thanksgiving food was. And the stories came tumbling out – lefse rolled by grandmothers, turkeys cooked for boyfriends, green bean casserole eaten by many and yams with marshmallows on top the favorite of just one. The stories were shards of love shared around a table in the jail.
May you too find shards of love and stories to share around your tables in this most liminal season.
