A liminal time, this…

when the veil between life and death grows thin,

when the rhythm of day drawing breath

shows itself in the crackle of umber leaves,

in the moon rising low in blue autumn sky.

Many named: Samhain, All Souls, Dia de los Muertos

No need for words: our hearts know it better:

A darkening time of year:

a retreat, a refuge, a return, a release.

Yes, beloveds leave us; and with what are we left?

The chance to learn courage,

The opportunity to be newly lonesome,

We pray a breaking open, not apart, of our heart.

Let us not forget what the poet May Sarton reminds us,

what has been once so interwoven
Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven.

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
… wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited—
Only the strands grow richer with each loss

Time is brimming. It holds what it can and no more.

Let us present the offerings of our hearts:

flowers and photographs, objects of longing or whimsy

on an altar made or found.

Let us dance with these bodies lent to us ever so briefly.

Let us weave together the strands of our lives,

yes, growing richer in the process,

growing as we do, towards mystery.