Omnia quest

Thoughts in Samhain

In this season I voluntarily walk into the earth and go into myself, diving into the simmering waters of the magic cauldron. The first thing I notice is that I have been waiting for this moment several months, missing the sensation of being inwards and held by the mother. Every year, since I began to traverse the wheel more consciously, Samhain has been a nurturing and fulfilling time that expands my soul.

Walk with me this final turn of the wheel, descending into the earth to wander through the reigning darkness, where silence blooms and secrets await.

Imagine a hollow in the ground, a narrow opening where a stone staircase coils downward. The walls breathe dampness. Your fingertips graze roots, veins of rock, the furtive bodies of insects. The deeper you go, the less light remains. Perhaps you carry a candle, a fragile flame; perhaps you stumble upon a torch abandoned in the corridor. Still, the light thins, until shadows overtake everything. At first, you notice your own outline wavering against the soil; then even that dissolves. The eyes falter, and other senses awaken—hearing, touch, the pulse of air upon your skin. And in the hush, silence reveals its multitude of voices.

At the end of this descent, you find yourself in a cavern vast and spherical. At its center, a nucleus glows: a great ember, a living sun, beating with hypnotic rhythm. Waves of colour ripple outward—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, white—each shade folding into the next like the breath of a cosmic tide. You lift your hand. Even before contact, a tingling rises through your fingers. And then you touch nothing, for there is no matter, only vibration. Your heartbeat quickens, synchronizing with the fiery pulse. You cross a threshold without moving, immersed wholly in that outrageous radiance.

Now there is no above or below, no edges, no horizon. Only light and shadow, beat and silence, endless vibration. Your form loosens, dissolves, and in dissolving is restored. You are within the womb, and the womb is the cauldron—the Mother, the source, the eternal vessel. You are hers, and she is you.

Here you may linger. Here you may rest in fusion while your new self takes shape. Like a seed sown in secret soil, you are held in the mystery of becoming. Transformation is slow, but certain: what is lost shall return, and what returns will not be the same. This is the promise of the cauldron.

So may this season cradle your mind, your body, your soul. May you listen to the wisdom of the shadows, to the silence that carries a thousand voices, to the magic simmering in the depths. Each turn of the wheel delivers a message, unique to the one who dares descend. Today I write from that place. Today the cauldron has given me words, and fire, and light. From its depths, I was born.