When the Field Remembers
A harvest moon, a crow, and the thin veil.
Dear Friends,
Every All Hallows’ Eve, I ponder what October 31st means, what it used to embody. The old ways are still practiced in pockets of this world where people walk the edges and cross thresholds.
There was a time, too long ago, when the turning of the year was not a spectacle but joyful gratitude. The harvest was gathered, and a solitary mirror —the autumnal moon —rose bright. We paused not only to celebrate, but also to honor the field, the wind, and what moved just beyond the ethereal edge of the thin veil—the seen and unseen. This otherworldly veil was a blessing: a door, and a night for remembering what our good Earth provided.
We’ve traded much of that for garish noise and glitter.
But the sea remembers.
The crow remembers.
The field remembers.
May the night of the gossamer thin veil return us to what holds: the earth beneath our feet, the names we carry, the thresholds we are asked to cross with care. Not fear—belonging. Not spectacle—remembrance.
Note:
—John Philip Newell, Praying with the Earth, A Prayerbook for Peace (Page 20)