The year is 671 CE. In the bonfire-lit darkness you dance, holding the hands of your family and other villagers. Together, you spiral widdershins and then deosil led by a man wearing the mask and skin of a stag. Representing the death and rebirth of both animals and ancestors, the dance connects you with their spirits and, for a while, you cross the veil between worlds. You dance and sing together all night. You call the night Samhain.

The year is 1281 CE. In the barely-lit darkness you hold in your hands a water-filled basin. Beside you, on the ground, lies a blade handed down through the generations. Your hair stands on end as the liquid reflects not your face but images of the future and messages from your ancestors. You join the spirits of your ancestors in a timeless reunion and, for a while, you cross the veil between the worlds. You gaze beyond the boundary for hours until you slump, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep. It has become too dangerous to call the Sabbats by the Old Names. But it is time for the last harvest. The Church officials call it All Saints Eve.

The year is 1831 CE. In the darkness of the fields, you walk silently beside your family and the other villagers. Together, you carry white candles from the fields to the woods and then to the hillocks of the faeries. If the flames burn steady then you are safe. But, if the flames flicker and sputter, then religious officials are called to exorcise the area of evil spirits. Disconnected from the spirits of your ancestors, you fear them and return to your homes as quickly as possible. In whispered voices only, you call this Lating Night.

The year is 1981 CE. In the darkness of my suburban neighborhood, lit only by streetlamps and porchlights, I walk and run with my friends, dressed as goblins and ghosts and...witches. In our hands we hold decorated bags. On the sidewalk we stay in a line so as not to trip over each others costumes but we bunch up in front of each door, begging for fresh treats with stale jokes. We do not know that we represent, only in dim memory, the spirits of departed family welcomed home by lit candles and the promise of Soul Cakes and wine. The candles burn now inside carved pumpkins and the Soul Cakes are replaced by individually wrapped, manufactured candies. For our connection to our ancestors, society has substituted imaginary television families. We still wear masks but, rather than identify us in the spirit world, they hide our embarassed faces from entirely physical neighbors. During school today, we talked excitedly about this night. We called it Halloween.

The year is 1991 CE. In the darkness of a Mexican graveyard candles are lit and each family member holds his or her hands in prayer for the souls of the departed. Earlier this evening, neighbors sat together before altars set up to honor departed children. Tomorrow, musicians will wander and festivities will honor all the spirits of the dead. Each person is connected to the spirits of their ancestors by a culture that honors and respects not only the spirit world but it's daily place in their lives. They pray and wait all night. They call this night and the days surrounding it Los Dias De Los Muertos: The Days of the Dead. The date is October 31st.

The year is 2001 CE. In the candle-lit darkness of a suburban livingroom or public hall you dance, holding the hands of your coven-mates. Together, you spiral widdershins and then deosil led by a woman wearing a mask and a handmade cloak. Representing the death and rebirth of both animals and ancestors, the dance connects you with their spirits and, for a while, you cross the veil between worlds. You dance and sing together all night. You call this night Samhain.

Originally published in the Samhain 1998 issue of Iowa Witch and Pagan.