I didn’t do everything I planned to do for the Allhallowtide triduum.
Last year I pulled out all the stops. I baked soul-cakes and báirín úll, I pulled out photos of the deceased and spent time thanking God for them, I made a parshell cross of rowan wood and red thread, I carved a small pumpkin and I lit candles in the window. I even walked around the outside of the house, saying a caim prayer of protection and gratitude. I ritualized the whole three days, and at the time I really needed it. It lent an air to the season that was really powerful, back then.
This year was different, and that’s okay.
This year, I gave myself space to do the things that felt right and to leave the rest. I baked the báirín úll, the apple bread, but decided to leave the soul-cakes for next year. I didn’t carve a pumpkin, but I placed the terra cotta Jack O’Lantern that I’ve used for years on the porch and lit candles in the windows. I threw fresh boughs of rosemary in the kettle on the woodstove for fragrance, but I didn’t bother with a parshell cross or walking around the house.
And for All Souls’ Day, instead of pulling out the photos of the beloved departed, I instead began my yearly tradition of feeding the birds.
In some cultures, the sight of certain creatures means that you are being visited by a deceased loved one. I think it’s notable that most of the creatures involved in this bit of lore are winged. Butterflies and moths, often, and certain rare birds. Even finding a feather on the ground is enough.
Birds are our constant companions, on this land. If I believed that birds were the spirits of my beloved departed relatives, then I would be constantly surrounded by a great cloud of feathered souls, and I would have to contend with their varied personalities. Juncos, humble and sputtering at the gall of the bigger birds. Jays, squawking noisily and shouldering their way to the bird feeder. Towhees and robins, wrens and chickadees. Ravens high above, not deigning to descend. The occasional visit from a seasonal stranger, a band-tailed pigeon or a varied thrush.
All the same, spirits or not, I begin to feed them when the weather turns cold and the yard soggy. I feed them from the end of October through to March, when the spring bugs emerge from their hibernation and larva and worms become plentiful again. I fill the feeder and scatter the ground and the underbrush with seeds, making sure there is plenty to go around.
In the dark gray of winter these feathered jesters cheer me, a cackling fluttering horde descending upon the lawn, each with their own habits and conversation.
Perhaps, then, they are more like a raucous family tree than they are a crowd of unrelated beasts. At the table of the bird feeder they gather to eat and gossip and share and argue. They have their own hierarchies, their own places. They know one another. They feel each other’s pain and joy, the desperation to survive the winter and enter the bright warmth of spring, again. They sing praise, each in their own way, and fill their tiny bellies.
Perhaps this is what it would be like, if I could gather the generations together in one place, at one feast. The invisible, the dearly departed. Perhaps if I could invite them all into my backyard, this is how it would look.
A great crowd of cackling, fluttering souls, descending, attracted by food and family in the dark of the winter gray.
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Very beautifully written. We feed the birds in our garden, and every morning we can see them waiting patiently on the sidelines until we've done so. They trust us too: we can actually get quite close to them before they fly off, although we do try not to disturb them. What I find astonishing is that some of them are so intelligent that they can recognise individual human faces! We're so lucky to have them around.
As a bird lover, this beautifully written piece spoke to my soul. I love this idea of a feathered family tree with all the different personalities! I’m going to try to match loved ones who have passed with a bird ☺️ A lovely way to remember them.