by JanieM
I was going to write a post about grandmas, but it veered off into something else.
The Wikipedia entry on Samhain says this:
Wiccans believe that at Samhain the veil between this world and the afterlife is at its thinnest point of the whole year, making it easier to communicate with those who have left this world.
You might well ask why I’m thinking about Samhain in May, and there actually is a reason…
…connected to these lines from one of Bilbo’s poems, lines that float through my mind now and then:
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
Maybe it’s a side effect of getting older and being grateful for every new springtime I get to see, or maybe it has to do with living in Maine, where spring is the annual reward for making it through a season when twenty degrees feels like a heat wave. Either way, the weeks from early April till late May are my favorite time of year, black flies and all. (Black flies were put here by God, or the Universe, to remind us that nothing is perfect.)
The spring peepers wake up in early April and sing their hearts out every night, looking for frog love. Around the same time – though it varies wildly from one year to the next – the ice on the lake starts to sport a blue fringe, then gradually recedes until it is no more. By the third week in April the grass is greening, and in early May there's a perfect unmown carpet all over everything. Around the time when some people (in a hurry) mow the grass for the first time, the trees are budding out, and the whole world has a skim of greens, mostly pale and delicate, that evolves from one day to the next until the trees are in full leaf, if not yet at their full summer shades.
That's where we are in Maine right now.
I drove to town yesterday and was reminded yet again – every year is new! – that lilacs are everywhere. My theory is that the early European settlers in this harsh landscape didn't have time for flower gardens, but they liked lovely things as much as the next person, and lilacs and daisies were the answer to that. You could throw some lilacs into the ground and then neglect them mercilessly, and yet they'd survive and persist and give you a week or so of beauty – and that scent! – every year. Daisies of all kinds thrive here without a lot of care, so says a gardener friend of mine. And maple trees were here before you, and could be tapped to make syrup and strategically placed to make shade. So there was the stalwart trio of growing things on the old farmsteads: maple trees, lilacs, and daisies. They're everywhere, to this day.
Also: apple blossoms.
And that's where Samhain comes into it. I've been drinking in springtime over these weeks, as I always try to do, appreciating every beautiful day as if it will be gone tomorrow. And for some reason, that line about the thinning of the veil keeps popping into my mind. I didn't originally read it in a Wiki entry; it's probably a remnant of Starhawk's novel The Fifth Sacred Thing, or maybe of conversations with Wiccan friends I used to know. In any case, it's been popping up so relentlessly that I had to stop the other day and try to figure out why.
I think it's that for me the veil is thinnest not at Samhain, but at apple blossom time.
One of my grandmas lived her entire life in rural Ohio, and maybe it was her influence that taught me to tune in to the seasons in just the way I do. The seasons in rural Ohio track pretty well with the seasons in Maine, though they're offset a bit because the winters aren't so long there. But lilacs, maple trees, daisies, apple trees – they're all common to both landscapes.
My grandma lost the love of her life during apple blossom time in 1926, when my grandfather died of the ill health that had troubled him since his time in the trenches in World War I. She rarely spoke of him explicitly, but she treated apple blossom time as sacred, so that the very phrase carries connotations for me that can't really be put into words.
Here's the thing. At apple blossom time, I feel like I could walk around the corner and find my grandma as a young woman, going about her life in her usual hardworking, cheerful way. The day we moved into the old farmhouse in Maine I felt like I was walking into her movie. I wasn't, really, but I still get those echoes now and then, and they come most often in May.
The veil is indeed thin in the springtime.
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