Poem for Samhain - Longfellow

 Haunted Houses
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.


Picture found here.

Dia de Los Muertos...

...days to honor ancestors and one's dead in Mexico....so many traditions have this time for such reflection and ritual. This is considered to be the time of year when the 'veil between the worlds' thins.

I'm in the middle of a respiratory illness (problematical because of chronic asthma) so I can't do what I originally wanted to do this year. Here's just a wee offering...

First, something to make:

The full tutorial for this guy (they call him "Morty") can be found on the Berroco Design Blog here.


Here, to stand for all those of my beloved dead, is my mother George-Anna, c. 1926 at about age 3. You see behind her some of the iris she adored all her life, iris that my grandfather grew on his flower farm at College Hill, Ohio.
Yes, that is a real owl she is holding on the stick.
I don't remember the story about the owls exactly, but the clues to it are in several negatives in the family papers I salvaged, negatives of each of my mother's sisters and one of her father, holding small owls on a stick. I think that something happened to the mother owl and my mother's family handfed and raised the babies... I'm hoping I'll find more clues as I begin to read some of the massive amount of letters and writing my mother left.

I know that my Aunt Suzanne was always called Hootie because of her love for owls. I wonder if these pictures mark the time when that nickname came into being.

Owls are surrounded by myth and mystery. So I think this is a wonderful picture to post to mark this day...to focus my thoughts on those who came before (whose lives have become so close to me as I've gone through the papers and built the family tree) and those dear ones who have left my sight in my lifetime....they know who they are. They know they are beloved still by me....
Blessed be,
Zann