2015: a retrospective.

Number of books in 2015: 53.

Best books read in 2015: The Marriage Of Opposites, by Alice Hoffman; The History Of Loneliness, by John Boyle.

Number of Pagan festivals celebrated: eight.

Amount of time on Earth: 43 years, 6 months, 0 days.

Number of years married: two and a half.

Number of years in my job: nine.

Number of tattoo hours in 2015: 19.

Number of diplomas started: one {this one}.

Number of assignments completed towards my diploma: four {eight to go}.

Number of copy editing projects completed: eight, all since the middle of October, including one thesis.

Best memories of the year: I have three. In January, John and I spent a day watching cricket at the Basin Reserve in Wellington. In June, on Midwinter's evening, I met for the first time with the women of my Pagan community. And, one morning in late August, I was lying on the settee feeling like death warmed up with the 'flu, when John came in with the post, which included all my course materials for my diploma.

Bring on 2016! I'm ready for you.

Anne-Marie x

Dedication.

I come here at this festival of Beltane,

to dedicate myself to this Path.

I dedicate myself to the honour of my ancestors,

both those I know and those I don't.

May their heritage never be lost,

so long as I am alive.

I dedicate myself to the honour of Earth

and all who call her home.

May I learn to leave a light footprint

on our Mother, and may I never take her beauty

and blessings for granted.

I dedicate myself to the honour of the ancestors

of the land, wherever on Earth I may be.

I dedicate myself to the honour of the Divine,

may I always be open to its mystery.

I dedicate myself to the honour of the

Wheel of the Year. May I keep its festivals holy,

wherever on Earth I am.

I dedicate myself to the honour of all

who walk this Path with me,

whether or not they call themselves Pagan.

May I walk my Path with

truth, beauty, passion, kindness, and honour.

Blessed be.


{Wishing you a blessed season, whether you are celebrating Beltane, Samhain, Hallowe'en or All Saints Day.}

Just like the trees.

I'm writing this beside a roaring fire, with a certain happy dog stretched out on his sheepskin rug before it. Outside, heavy thundery showers keep passing over; it's dark, and it's cold. I'm feeling very grateful for all this cosy warmth.

It's a bleak time of year here in New Zealand. I find it hard going to work when it's still dark, and coming home after sunset. I even have to do most of my hooping inside at this time of the year.

A friend and I were walking our dogs at Kowhai Park last week, on one of those rare fine, windless, winter days. I confided to him that I often feel depressed at this time of the year, no matter how positive I am or how mild the weather is.

"I feel stripped bare," I said.

I didn't really understand my own words, but as we walked on I watched clouds of dead oak and liquid ambar leaves drift down to rest on the grass below. Some trees were only just starting to shed their leaves while others were nearly bare. I love the trees that fully lose their leaves in winter. They may appear to be naked and lifeless but they have a certain majesty about them. Without its covering of leaves, you can see a tree as it really is.

Maybe I am like the deciduous trees in winter. My leaves have been stripped from me, leaving only my bare branches. In winter, I see things - I see myself - as I truly am. Which is not always a comfortable thing.

I like this analogy.

The next day during my morning devotions I picked up Caitlin Matthews' wonderful, wise book, The Celtic Spirit {which I recommend to any Pagan with an interest in the Celtic world}, and the reading for that day contained the following paragraph:

"At this time of the year, when the trees look dishevelled, when growth stops, we may feel the loss as a personal thing and cross the threshold to depression. Yet the roots of renewal lie in the contemplation of the way in which this year's leaf mould on the forest floor will become the rich earth for next year's glorious growth."

I still long for warm sunshine and long days. Yet I feel I've been given a different perspective on winter: without the cold, the dark, the depression, the being stripped bare, we cannot experience the growth of spring.

My first Samhain.

Samhain altar, which includes photos of grandparents and great-grandparents.

At the end of April I celebrated my first Samhain {pronounced SOW-en}.

Samhain marks the start of winter and is one of four major pre-Christian Celtic festivals {the others are Imbolc - start of spring; Beltane - start of summer; and Lughnasadh / Lunastal - the start of autumn}. Of course, Samhain is supposed to be celebrated at the end of October, as it still is in the northern hemisphere, but there seems little point in celebrating the start of winter in October in New Zealand! So southern hemisphere Pagans switch the Celtic seasonal festivals around by six months.

Our modern festival of Hallowe'en originated with Samhain. One of the beliefs about Samhain was that it is a night when the veil between the living world and the Otherworld was open and if you weren't careful you might be harassed by all sorts of ghouls and ghosts and bad spirits. Fires were lit to drive them away.

Another less sinister custom of Samhain was that it is the night when our ancestors draw close to us. Pagans will often decorate their altars with photos of the beloved who have died. A group of local Pagans I know go to the local cemetery at Samhain to clean gravestones.

Many Pagans have great reverence for their ancestors; so Samhain - while it was originally an agricultural festival - has become a sort of "day of the dead". In New Zealand and Australia Samhain falls very close to Anzac Day, which is really appropriate because Anzac Day is a holiday to remember those who have died in wars.

I marked Samhain by placing photos of both my immediate ancestors and John's immediate ancestors on our home altar. I made a nice meal, lit some candles and set an extra place at our table for the ancestors. After dinner we drank mulled wine and ate Anzac biscuits {a delicious cookie which many Australians and New Zealanders bake at this time of the year}, and I said some prayers.

It was a very simple celebration, but it was meaningful and it felt good.