Around this time of year, I feel myself slowing down a little. The autumn air crackles, leaves scurry to find a spot to rest, and the light fades long before I am ready. This is Samhain, the Celtic festival that marks the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. It sits peacefully between seasons, when the veil between worlds grows thin. I have always found that idea comforting, grounding even, an invitation to pause, reflect, and reconnect with nature, with others, and with ourselves.
The Ancient Pause
Samhain was once a time for gathering the remaining fruits of the earth, banking fires for colder nights, and honouring those who came before. The world turned inward, and so did people. There is something deeply human in that rhythm. We may no longer live by the crops or the calendar moons, but our bodies still sense the shift. This is the season of blankets, candlelight, and serene thoughts.
Sometimes I think we still carry that memory, a kind of seasonal instinct. It’s a gentle call to rest, to tidy away what no longer serves us, and to prepare calmly for what comes next.
Rituals for Rest
The Celts lit hilltop fires at Samhain; I light a candle by the window and take a few minutes under a warm shower to wash away the day. They marked the darkening nights with feasts and storytelling; I mark mine with grounding rituals that help my mind settle. Ten still minutes, no phone, no rush, no noise.
Each act feels symbolic, like closing one year and opening the next. It’s a soothing reminder to the body that it’s safe to stop. The benefit is clear: better sleep, a steadier mood, and a sense of being anchored in the middle of change.
Harvesting Stillness
Samhain was also a time of gratitude and preparation. Farmers looked at what they had gathered and decided what to store, what to share, and what to let go. I try to do the same inwardly. What habits do I want to carry into winter, and what can I set down for a while?
It feels like care for the spirit, a steady kind of sorting-out. Sometimes it means going to bed early. Sometimes it means saying no, or spending a weekend doing nothing much at all. Well-being isn’t always an action; sometimes it’s a choice. Like any harvest, it takes patience.
The Apple at the Threshold
Apples have always been part of Samhain. In Celtic tradition they symbolised life, wisdom, and the Otherworld, a fruit of both sweetness and mystery. They were stored through winter, offered at feasts, and used in divinations.
When I was very small, I sat in chapel one Sunday morning and watched a minister cut an apple in half. I don’t remember the sermon, only that moment. It caught my attention, that apple – so out of place. Uncanny… then the knife sliced, the apple opened, and there it was: a perfect little star hidden at its heart.
It stayed with me all my life, a modest lesson in noticing the beauty tucked inside ordinary things. Years later, I learned that in Methodist teaching, that five-pointed star represents the classical elements: Earth, Water, Air, Fire and Spirit, a reminder that balance and connection live even in the smallest of acts.
The Apple-Star Ritual
You will need:
- One apple
- A small knife
- A calm moment
- Sit somewhere peaceful and take a slow breath. Feel the weight of the apple in your hand.
- Cut it across the middle, not from stem to base, but through its centre to reveal the star inside.
- Pause for a moment and study it. Let each point remind you of something: 🜃 Earth for steadiness, 🜄 Water for flow, 🜁 Air for clarity, 🜂 Fire for energy, ◯ Spirit for connection.
- Say softly, if you wish: “May I carry calm in all these forms, grounded, clear, alive, kind, and connected.”
- Eat the apple slowly, or share half with someone else as a gesture of kindness.
Bringing the Old into the New
Every year, just before Samhain, the clocks go back. It’s a modern idea that somehow arrives at the perfect time, giving us an extra hour to rest, to breathe, to feel the year turning. The earlier dusk and longer nights echo the old belief that we are stepping into the darker half of the year, when the world turns inward and light becomes something we make for ourselves.
Samhain reminds me that light and dark aren’t enemies, just partners taking turns. The turning of the clock only underlines that rhythm. In that pause there’s an unhurried kind of magic: the glow of a candle, a pot of tea, or a star hidden in the heart of an apple, waiting to be found.
Melanie Lampro 
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