Between the worlds the veil is especially thin today.

Gossamer thin. Thin as breath.

I am lighting small flames around my house, where I read, where I wash the dishes looking out over the Kilpatrick Hills.

Every so often I run my fingers over the plump little shell that I found just after my brother left this world. The green belly rounds gritty and full, much like a life.

I show my boy photographs of the great grandmothers and grandfathers, the uncles and the brothers, the farhers and the grandmothers.

When he asks how they died, I linger at some stories and tell with kindness and at others I tell him, ‘It’s not important right now, but I know that they love you.’

Some stories are too big for some bodies, especially small ones.

In time. In time.

Everything has a season.

Last night I sat in a circle with five other women.

My heart is still so full that I don’t know how to put it into words.

All I know is that there was honour and courage, grace and raw pain, comfort and differences, and all the while their arms were wide open to each other and I was in quiet awe at it all.

Our stories matter deeply and where they are told in a safe and accepting place with no agenda present other than hearing and the privilege of this, healing sits at the table too.

Honour your people today.

Think of them.

Let their names fill your mouth.

All is well. All is well.

Blessed Samhain to you.

May all your people be near and close, and may their memories be a blessing and where memories are difficult, may you be held especially close today.

All is well. All is well.

© Liezel Graham 2021.

{Image my own}