"I practice Shambhala," is his preferred formulation, but whichever way, on retreat, most of the men were neither Buddhists nor Shambhala-practitioners. They were mostly pagans, Wiccans, or nothing in particular, like me. There was one Jewish couple, and an older man of Ukrainian descent who identified all at once as pagan, and also with both the Jewish and Eastern Orthodox halves of his ancestry.
When I set out to find a Samhain service to attend in DC, I looked up one of the pagan-leaning men from the retreat who lives here in town, to see if he might point me toward a local group. He suggested instead that I hit the road and observe the holiday at Four Quarters, an "Interfaith Sanctuary of Earth Religion" in south central Pennsylvania.
So, I called up Four Quarters and reserved myself a spot. They had a whole weekend of activities planned, and I carved out time for the Dumb Feast of the Dead on Saturday evening, followed by the main Samhain service itself. A snafu with my Zipcar reservation delayed my departure from the city, but I still managed to arrive at Four Quarters in time for the meal.
Legally organized as a church, Four Quarters is physically laid out like a large camp, located on 150 acres in the Alleghenies, bounded on three sides by a hairpin curve in a mountain stream. Visitors access the camp down a dirt road lined with cow pastures and orchards and McCain-Palin yard signs. I signed in at the farmhouse at the entrance to the property, where the man at the desk verified my payment, and then I drove further in to a grassy parking area a short walk from the dinner tent and the stone circle for the Samhain service.
I noticed in the parking lot that the celebrants drawn by Samhain seemed more attracted to multiple bumper stickers than perhaps your average motorist:
"God wants spiritual fruits, not religious nuts."Men and women, some of them in cloaks, were walking down the dirt road toward the dinner tent. A long-grey-haired man in a T-shirt and jeans pulled his SUV in next to my Zipcar. He made an ashamed comment about his choice of vehicle and its impact on the environment, and he praised my car-sharing when he saw the Zipcar logo on the passenger door. A group of women with a guitar sat in a circle by the side of the road singing "Down to the River to Pray," a song I have sung at the Unitarian Church before. Their next song began with the lyric, “We all come from goddess, and to her we return…”
"Conform, go crazy, or become an artist."
"She who laughs lasts."
"Polyamory: Love shared is love multiplied."
Feeling needy of food and light-headed from the drive, I walked down to get in line for a hot plate from the commercially outfitted on-site kitchen. Dinner consisted of salad with vinaigrette dressing, applesauce, a black-bean side dish, colcannon (cabbage and potatoes together), yeasted rolls, ginger-stuffed pork loin for the omnivores, and a choice of vegan or non-vegan squash soup. I chose everything except the pork loin and balanced my vegan squash soup bowl over my mulled wine cup on my way to find a seat.
At the entrance to the dinner tent a woman in a black dress with a pentagram necklace said to me: "Please observe our silence in memory of our Honored Dead."
I entered a two-room tent with seating for maybe 250 and took a place on one of the benches. The tables were set with tea lights inside tiny carved-out pumpkins, which provided the only light. Not only was everyone completely silent, but they seemed to be avoiding all eye contact as well, with me and with each other.
Some people blessed their food with a waving of their hands over the plate and bowl before they began to eat. Some wore cloaks and some did not. Men tended toward beards and long-hair, tattoos were prevalent, and ages ranged from infant to elderly. I noticed no obvious gay couples, though there had been lesbian bumper stickers in the parking lot.
I felt that the silence made me eat more slowly. I found myself mostly singing songs in my head when I wasn’t observing the downcast faces or thinking about the food. The songs in my head were upbeat, so I felt off-center, as if I wasn’t connecting to the common purpose which felt very somber.
As the dinner drew to a close, an unseen woman outside the tent read a plaintive and wistful poem that began with the words "I miss you most upon each Samhain, when the boundary turns to sheer..."
She invited the spirits of our ancestors to walk among us throughout the evening. By now, the sun had gone down, and there was to be a gap of maybe 30 to 45 minutes between dinner and the worship service. After exiting the dinner tent, I chose to take a walk down the gravel road looking upward at the stars, shining bright in the clear, warm night, as they do not do in the city. The sliver of moon must have been low in the sky, hidden by the surrounding mountains.
I walked past tents and fire pits and parked RVs. Some people were staying at Four Quarters for the weekend; others who are members of the church itself camp there for longer periods of time.
By the time I turned around and walked back toward the stone circle where the ceremony would be held, night had fallen hard and it was very dark. I could hear other footsteps in the stones on the gravelly road, but could not see any other walkers until I was close upon them.
I passed single walkers and walkers in pairs, and up ahead, I heard voices talking in low tones. I could not see how many people or where they were, but I guessed maybe ten or twelve, and then suddenly I was upon the group.
We were standing directly outside the stone circle, and as I stepped into the crowd, their dark shapes took form before my eyes, revealing people who were very tall and shaped like cones. I realized with a start that I was the only person I could see who was not wearing a voluminous, long, black cloak and a very tall pointed hat. Most were also carrying a staff.
Wow! I had never felt out of place for not being dressed like a witch before!
The feeling actually hit me really hard, as I registered two kinds of sharp fear, each followed by shame.
The first was a completely shocking fear of witches. I am not afraid of witches. I have known and associated with self-described witches before. But something about the darkness and the cultural associations with the hats and cloaks and the feeling of being surrounded produced an unbidden panic I could not have anticipated.
It subsided as quickly as it came, but I felt properly and terribly ashamed.
The second fear was the fear of standing out for not being properly dressed. I was wearing two T-shirts, short-sleeved over long, blue jeans, and green canvas sneakers -- and feeling a little like a slob.
My fears about my appearance, then, triggered shame for not having prepared correctly to observe the cultural norm. If I remove my shoes at the Hindu temple, and cover my head when required at the synagogue, then I should be prepared with a cloak at Samhain. I overheard one woman walk up bemoaning that she had left her cloak at home, so I knew soon enough that I would not be the only one, which was some comfort. Then, as others gathered on the road to wait for services to begin, it became clear that street clothes were going to be in the majority, and that the full-dress witches were the early-birds. I breathed something of a sigh of relief.
Shortly, a woman in a black dress and pointed hat began threading her way through the crowd with a an iron pot in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
"Reach into my cauldron and find out what you need to leave behind tonight," she said to each of us, before shining her light on the small printed papers we withdrew.
Mine said: Let go of your judgments.
When we all had a paper, someone rang a bell somewhere, and the woman with the cauldron told us to take a deep breath.
"You all have hard work to do tonight," she said, and started walking off the dirt road toward the stone circle. “Follow me.”
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