"What is remembered, lives."
( Starhawk, Truth or Dare )
And so on this most sacred day I stand here and contemplate the results of all my hard work lo this last week-plus. Sighing, because it still seems so far from being done.
Yet, the window header is now plastered, sealed, and the last wall has its first coat of fresh paint. I say a silent prayer of thanks that second coats are far more quickly accomplished than firsts. But, when that simple task is at last complete, some four-odd hours from now, then comes the utter horror of cleaning up the mess that is the inevitable result of rebirthing. And readying the house for company scheduled for arrival on early Friday afternoon.
Today marks the end of the natural year in the northern hemisphere. It is "new year's eve", so to speak, so I suppose it is somehow appropriate that I will be saying "out with the old and in with the new!" by the time the wee neighborhood ghosts and goblins retire from their annual foraging with goodie bags a'bulging.
I feel a little sad that there isn't enough time to carve a proper jack o'lantern for tonight. It is always a fun task and freshly roasted pumpkin seeds a treat. It occurs to me that I have no real memories of carving pumpkins as a child; they are perhaps most likely simply blocked out alongside the inevitable, painful stress that always accompanied any holiday in my dysfunctional family.
What I do remember clearly, though, is the preternatural awareness that is felt to this day when out alone in the darkness. For me, the annual wandering from door to door was an escape from the real horrors that existed inside our simple suburban ranch house. Though feaful of what could not be seen in the dark, the quietness of those chilly Halloween nights were a respite from the resident disembodied spirit that seemed to want nothing more than to be near and the blindly and brutally raging, large-bodied spirit we called, "Dad". The first part of the route that took us farther and farther away from home was eagerly travelled as fast as our little brother's legs could muster; but each time, as we inevitably turned and began to make our way towards home, steps would begin to slow from more than tiredness, and I would silently wish that the peace of that moment in the darkness could stay with us forever.
The last house at which we would stop belonged to an old, Greek couple. We called them Grandma and Grandpa, and like my own grandparents, they treated us with such loving kindness that they could have put a rock in our bags and we'd have still felt special. It was one of the highlights of this hallowed night to ring their doorbell, for their treats were often homemade and the warmth we felt was not coming solely from the open front door. We'd linger as long as etiquette allowed, savoring that last bit of seeming normalcy, then reluctantly turn away and trudge across the street; I could feel the magic of the night slipping away with every exhalation.
A lifetime later, I understand so much more. And so I hold no regrets, nor even pity, really, for those children who found solace in the wanderings of this night. For it was in that darkness that we learned to see the light, in that silence we learned to feel peace. We left pretending to hide behind masks and returned feeling it was possible to be anyone we wanted to be.
And so it is that tonight I will set out a big dish of candy and acquiese to the modern traditions. But I will endeavor to make each child that rings our bell feel special, help them feel a little bit of the magic.
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