"The moment is not too far off when she sets out on an Underworld venture. Surely, she will visit the Underworld more than once throughout her lifetime. This excursion might be accelerated by the loss of somebody she cherishes, or by a dangerous disease, or a grave disillusionment in profession or specialty. At the point when it occurs, she feels that everything is lost. She is isolated from all that she holds dear. She is in stun. She loses hope. She laments.
She slips to the domain of the Old Ones, the Crone, the Cailleach, the Grandmother, Lady Death, Hecate, Baba Yaga, Erishkegal, La Santa de Muerte. The Old One has 1,000 names.
Our Hallowmas Woman may end up in an obscured wood, on a night when no moon lights the sky, not so much as a dainty sickle. She sits with folded legs in the soil at a spot where three streets meet, a container of contributions next to her. She shudders as she hears the melancholy yell of a dark canine, its red eyes scowling at her out of the brush. She watches the silver-slim fiber of spiderweb diversion in the starlight. She feels the surge of chilly, brisk air as a hoot owl flies overhead, fluttering its gigantic wings.
She pauses.
She sits quietly at the junction, realizing that the agreeable, natural landscape of her life has disintegrated away and is no more. Be that as it may, it isn't yet clear where she will go straightaway, or what shape her days may take.
She sits tight for the insight of the Old One.
And keeping in mind that she pauses, she reflects. She starts to dream. She figures out her feelings. Truly! I need that. No! I don't need that. This is the existence I need. Not that. She starts to have flickers of thoughts, a fantasy scarcely got after waking. What was that? A picture, an aroma, an inclination . . . it is unclear, taking structure, at that point indistinguishable once more.
Even though she is shattered, she starts to discover comfort in this liminal space, among to a great extent, past and future, once in a while. She is balanced on the edge between her precursors and her relatives, the Dark Moon and the New. She starts to detect that she is torn open, and her heart grows, light gushing out through the breaks. The cover between this world and the following are meager in reality.
We see the Hallowmas Woman in the obvious November scene, with its quieted tones of olive, ochre, sienna earthy colored. We discover her in a chilly sculpture in a burial ground, garlanded with dead roses, thistles, and crimson rosehips. We see her in fogbound mornings when there is no qualification between ocean, stones, and sky, and the Otherworld is only a stage away. She lives inside the concise days and long evenings that draw us toward withdrawal and covering. The Hallowmas lady rests. She pulls out into herself. It's anything but a period of association. She favors her own organization, turning down solicitations to assemble with others. The midwinter occasions will be here soon enough.
Maybe, on the off chance that she should be so fortunate, a lady will live long enough in human years to epitomize the Old One in a real sense. At 70 or 80 years of age, she has strolled the Great Round of life/passing/recharging more than once. She realizes how the story closes. Age doesn't naturally give shrewdness (there's no numb-skull like an old idiot) — however by 70 years of age, our Hallowmas lady has taken in some things about her spirit's motivation. She is very much aware of the inheritance that she will give up when she passes the boundary.
Her body might be attacked by infection or maturing. On the other hand, she might be as adaptable and solid as her kid neighbor who rehearses yoga and strolls a mile or two consistently. Keeping the actual body flexible and sound has never been as significant as it is currently, with an entire Underworld to investigate. The Hallowmas lady has not had her moonflower in numerous years, and to be completely forthright, she doesn't generally miss it. She's substance to be on the opposite side of the hormonal cover and to leave the pattern of ripeness and delivery to more youthful ladies.
At the point when the hour of All Hallows goes to a lady's spirit, she starts to come to accept Lady Death, and with endings, everything being equal. She knows, as the Fates do, that everything must pass. She knows herself as Atropos, She Who Cuts the Thread of Life; as the Queen of Swords, who cuts away pessimism, disarray, and uncertainty; as the Blue Dakini, who disavows. She settles on decisions: this, she will keep. That, she will give up.
She starts to live as though Lady Death is looking behind her. Life is stripped down to its basics. What is truly significant? Eventually, the main thing?
She figures out the assets left by her folks and grandparents, after cleansing and giveaways and cleansing once more. What remains are photos, wedding bands, a Welsh Bible, a fraying insane blanket, a fishing camp, a treasured wooden seat. ...
At the point when we presume our time may be short, our needs become very straightforward. Finish that painting, that sonnet, that tune; pardon him, and her, and that one as well. Invest energy with the ones we love; visit the edge of saltwater and stones each day. While we're there, make certain to get seashore glass, at that point part with it. Sing to the Blessed Mother. Light a flame and inhale a supplication for the wild and blessed earth, to assist all creatures. Be available to the excellence that encompasses us. Consistently is an endowment of effortlessness.
The Hallowmas lady has been sitting long enough at the intersection. The Ancient One rises out of the brush of thistles, the dark dog next to her, a green snake folded over her arm. She offers the lady a cut open pomegranate, its ruby seeds pouring out. With her internal ear, the lady hears the ceremonial words: 'Take, eat: the product of death, which is life.' She swallows nine pomegranate seeds, relishing the tart, clashing flavor on her tongue. The Crone guides a hard finger to one of three ways, and the Hallowmas lady proceeds onward. She projects one final investigation on her shoulder as she leaves the Underworld, at that point goes to look for a first look at the New Moon.
On our deathbeds, when we've used up all available time, and no more books will be composed, no more melodies will be sung, and no more canvases will be painted — when that opportunity arrives, and we are ready to pass the boundary into the Great Unknown — the only important thing is love. The savage love we've had for the holy earth, for our loved ones and darlings, and the adoration that has streamed back to us consequently. Our flooding hearts have been aired out, repaired, and torn open once more.
"The only thing that is in any way important is love."