the veil is thin

Today is officially Samhain, but who can tell the difference! The veil has been sliver thin all week. Heck, for way more than a week!

Last week the Chronicle photographer came over to photograph my house for the usual little article on real Witches and Halloween. I knew the dead were really here when my sister from Santa Cruz "just happpened" (like there's such a thing as coincidence!) to drop by. She ended up holding the martini glass that goes on the altar for my father. We laughed heartily, agreeing he really wanted to get his picture in the paper this year. And, usually the martini goes on Samhain night. This year, he wanted that drink ahead of time. Who can blame him!

The little article turned out to be a BIG article, with plenty of my dead being clearly featured. The martini got plenty of play as well. Good magic, as my plea this year was that they put their shoulder to the wheel of positive change. My father was a Republican who wrote JFK and apologized for voting for the wrong guy. Doing what he can on the other side of the veil this year to get the right guy in seems like a fine amend.

Last Saturday we did a Dinner with the Dead at Martin de Porres, the soup kitchen that Thorn has volunteered at for years. We decorate the room with sugar skulls, novenas with pictures of our dead on them, and cover the tables with black tablecloths. It's a potluck where the dishes are all food our dead and ancestors loved. We cast a simple circle and eat and toast to our dead. There's an altar in the middle of the room with a cauldron for donations to the project we want to magically support.

This year, the turnout was modest, but the magic potent. We were raising money for three projects aimed at building magical community; Fool's Journey, Solar Cross, and Stone City. The cauldron exceeded out expectations. All projects are now fed by both the living and the dead.

Today the fog is weighing heavy on Twin Peaks. It's sprinkling rain. My house is full of friends from England, one who will be initiated tomorrow morning, making a commitment to the Mysterious Ones to be their priestess. Perhaps we will dance with the dead in the Headlands tonight or perhaps we will stay comfortably dry inside, sharing sips of the bitter cup of death that I drink once a year and actually find quite tasty.

Whatever we do, the dead are here. And, my guess, is like the living, more than one of them need more than a stiff drink to get through the next week.