Some Earth-based traditions understand the Divine through changing aspects that mirror the cycles of nature and the seasons of our own lives.

For the Goddess: Maiden, Mother, and Crone.

For the God: Hunter, Father, and Sage.

Within some contemporary Pagan traditions, as the Wheel of the Year turns toward its darker half, these sacred figures change with it. The Goddess begins moving from Mother toward Crone, while the God moves toward his aspect as Sage. We enter a season of transition—a liminal space between Mabon, the autumn harvest, and Samhain, when life and death seem to draw particularly close to one another.

In the mythology I was taught, the Mother carries within her the promise of the God’s rebirth, even as the aging Sage prepares to surrender himself once again to the great mystery of death and renewal. Eventually, the Goddess herself becomes Crone: wise, ancient, and somehow still carrying the possibility of new life.

If that sounds confusing, perhaps the easiest way to understand it is simply as a never-ending sacred cycle: birth, life, death, and birth again. The story repeats itself through nature, mythology, ritual, and magic—or, if that word feels uncomfortable to you, perhaps intention, prayer, energy, or even simply “vibes.”

Different language, perhaps, for our human desire to connect ourselves with something larger.

The “dark half of the year”—autumn and winter—is traditionally a time for turning inward. The days shorten. The earth quiets. Trees begin letting go of what they no longer need. Seeds disappear beneath the soil, not dead exactly, but waiting.

And perhaps we are invited to do a little of the same.

We are moving into the fullness of fall now, although autumn in the Bay Area has always struck me as a little strange. No one tells you how foggy and cool August can be—or how absolutely sweltering October sometimes becomes.

I will admit that living here has thoroughly spoiled me.

These days, if the temperature creeps much past 78 degrees, I am already looking suspiciously at the thermostat and considering the air conditioning. This is a far cry from growing up in Southern California, where triple-digit days were simply part of life and temperatures could sometimes climb brutally high. I remember days when the heat and air quality were so terrible that our teachers kept us inside during recess, much like they would on a rainy day, because playing outside on the blacktop simply was not safe.

Perhaps that is another reason autumn has always felt like a beginning to me.

Honestly, fall has always seemed more like the “real” new year than January ever has.

When we are children, the year begins when school begins: new teachers, new clothes, new notebooks, new possibilities. Even as adults, there is something about autumn that carries that same energy. The rhythm changes. The light changes. Something in the air whispers that it is time to begin again.

As an Earth-based practitioner, I experience that rhythm through the turning of the Wheel. Samhain traditionally marks the beginning of the Pagan new year in many traditions. It is a threshold time, when the veil between the worlds is said to grow thin and our attention turns toward those who came before us.

We remember our ancestors—not only ancestors of blood, but ancestors of spirit, tradition, community, and chosen family. We remember those whose lives helped make our own lives possible.

Before our world of twenty-four-hour entertainment, streaming services, social media, and endless information, the darker months also required people to turn toward one another. Long evenings were filled with storytelling, shared music, food, folk traditions, and customs such as mumming—a form of masked folk theater and house-visiting found in several European traditions.

When darkness arrived early, community helped make the darkness less lonely.

I find it fascinating that so many cultures and religious traditions developed celebrations around this time of year. The particulars differ, of course, but again and again we find humanity gathering around similar questions: How do we honor those who came before us? How do we live with the reality of death? How do we prepare for darkness? And how do we remind one another that darkness is not the end of the story?

Since moving to the Bay Area, I have admittedly been a little saddened by the lack of trick-or-treaters at our door. There seem to be more organized trunk-or-treats and community events these days. I understand their appeal, but I still miss putting on a costume, sitting near the door with an enormous bowl of candy, and seeing the parade of excited children arriving on the porch.

On the other hand, the quieter evening leaves room for some of my own spiritual practices.

Samhain is one of the two times each year when I traditionally do a full Tarot reading for myself, the other being Beltane on May 1st, the opposite point on the Wheel. It becomes an opportunity to listen differently—to consider where I have been, what I may need to release, what I hope to carry forward, and where Spirit might be inviting me next.

And perhaps that is the invitation of this season, regardless of our particular spiritual path.

As the days grow shorter, what might you release?

What deserves remembering?

What wisdom have you gathered during this past season of your life?

And what quiet seed might you plant now, trusting that something new can emerge when the light returns?

What will you do, if anything, to mark this turning of the year?

In the meantime:

Gum beannaich an Samhain seo thu le sìth-inntinn agus soillseachadh d’ anama.

May this Samhain bless you with peace of mind and enlightenment of your soul.