The Veil Thins: A Samhain Reflection

As the nights stretch longer and the air smells faintly of smoke and apple skins, I feel that familiar hum—the season of Samhain approaches. The garden sleeps, the bees slow their dance, and even the most skeptical among us start to sense that something ancient is moving just beneath the surface.

I rewatched The Halloween Tree this week (the animated one from the 90s—still underrated perfection), and it hit me right in the solar plexus. Beneath its quirky costumes and glowing pumpkins, it’s a story about mortality—the truth that to be human is to live with death as our shadow and our teacher.

A Brief History of Samhain

Samhain, the Celtic festival that gave rise to Halloween, was never just about costumes or candy. It was the turning of the year—the final harvest, when cattle were brought in, fires were extinguished, and people gathered to honor their dead before winter’s descent.

The Celts believed the veil between worlds thinned at this time, allowing the spirits of ancestors (and the occasional trickster) to cross over for one night. It wasn’t grim—it was sacred. A reunion.

Across the World, the Dead Are Honored

This honoring of death isn’t unique to the Celts. Across the world, the end of October and early November are filled with celebrations of remembrance and reverence.

• In Mexico, families gather for Día de los Muertos, creating altars of marigolds, candles, and sugar skulls to welcome loved ones home.

• In Japan, the Obon Festival lights rivers with lanterns to guide spirits back to the other side.

• In parts of Africa, Egungun festivals transform streets into parades of color and ancestral presence.

• Even the Catholic All Souls’ Day echoes this rhythm—proof that remembrance transcends faith and culture.

Everywhere, humans find a way to say: You are not forgotten. You walk with us still.

The Silent Dinner: A Feast for the Beloved Dead

Every Samhain, I host what I call a Silent Dinner where guests dine in silence to honor the dead. It’s one of my favorite rituals of the year: part feast, part memorial, part conversation with the unseen.

The table is set with intention. A candle burns by the open door to welcome the spirits, and a skull candle flickers at the head of the table—a reminder of those who have gone before us. Each guest lights a black candle from that flame, silently inviting their ancestors, friends, and beloved dead to join.

We serve dinner to the spirits first—this past year’s menu was butternut lasagna with homemade sourdough bread, followed by pumpkin flancocho for dessert. Glasses are filled with water, bubbly, or mulled cider, both spiked and soft. As we eat, no words are spoken. We reflect on what we’ve lost, what guidance we need, and what must be released before winter settles in.

When the meal ends, we write our messages—prayers, confessions, intentions—and carry them to the fire. Each paper is burned, along with a small unlit candle, symbolizing what we’ve given and what we’re still becoming. Then, finally, the silence breaks. We drink intuition tea, pull cards, and share laughter—because grief and joy always live side by side.

This ritual reminds me that remembrance doesn’t have to be somber. It can be beautiful, communal, and alive—a night where the living and the dead feast together in gratitude, love, and mystery.

Death as a Teacher

For me, this season is less about spooky décor (though let’s be real, my glitter skeletons are staying up year-round) and more about connection—between past and present, seen and unseen.

It’s the time I clean my altar, light a beeswax candle, and whisper thanks to those who made me possible. My grandparents. My queer ancestors. Every teacher, witch, artist, and dreamer whose spark made it through the dark so I could keep it burning.

Samhain reminds us that death is not the opposite of life—it’s the mirror that makes it shimmer. It asks us to remember that everything we love is temporary, and therefore precious.

So, as you sip your tea and watch the leaves tumble, I invite you to honor your dead in whatever way feels right. Light a candle. Tell a story. Bake their favorite dessert. Laugh until it hurts. Because the veil may be thin, but love never fades.

With reverence, rainbow light, and queer audacity,

Joe @ WYRD

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