When did the ordinary world start borrowing the language of the uncanny? If you trace the thread back through smoke and harvest-stained hands, you arrive at Samhain — the Gaelic festival that marked the end of the harvest and the beginning of the “darker half” of the year. The old Celts understood seasons as certain lengths of light and dark; Samhain was a hinge day when the boundary between this world and the Otherworld grew porous. In those liminal hours, the people felt most alive to the presence of spirit in creation, most aware that earth and sky, living and departed, were woven together. People lit communal bonfires, offered portions of the year’s bounty in gratitude and reverence, and practiced divination because the future (and the dead) felt surprisingly close.
Like any good story that travels, Samhain layered with other practices as Christianity spread across Europe. The church’s establishment of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day in the early Middle Ages folded some Samhain rituals into a new calendar—All Hallows’ Eve eventually sloughed into Halloween—but many of the old customs survived in disguised forms: costumes to confuse wandering spirits, carved lanterns to guide or repel, and communal feasting to honor the lost. Still, the rhythms endure: Halloween itself is a palimpsest of harvest gratitude, boundary awareness, and the gentle honoring of what passes.
Samhain is also a garden-season festival. The herbs and trees people gathered then weren’t just medicine — they were language. They were talismans, memory-keepers, and midwives for the soul’s passage from one season to the next.
What if this season invites us not into mystery for mystery’s sake, but deeper into our understanding of creation? Each tree, each herb, each shifting light is God’s handiwork — a canvas through which we glimpse eternity.
Below are a few plants threaded through Celtic folklore — each one a small, green way to enter the mystery and whose stories have traveled through generations — plants that point us toward gratitude, memory, renewal, and a deeper communion with earth.
Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris) — Sometimes called “cronewort,” mugwort has long been gathered for dreaming, protection of pilgrimage, and the opening of inward listening. In this turning season, mugwort can become a companion for watchfulness and prayerful rest — a reminder that God speaks often in shades, in the spaces between. Its historical role at threshold times — like Samhain — is exactly what earned it a reputation for guarding the sleeper and opening the dreaming mind.
Rowan (Sorbus aucuparia) — the red-berried tree that shows up in myths across the British Isles. Rowan branches and berries were carried or planted to protect against witchcraft and fae mischief; a sprig over a doorway was supposed to keep malevolent spirits at bay. It symbolizes God’s guardianship and the vibrancy of life even as trees shed. A sprig at the door can become a quiet sign: in all change, we rest in God’s keeping.
Rosemary — evergreen, aromatic, and traditionally associated with remembrance. From ancient funeral rites to Shakespeare’s “that’s for remembrance,” rosemary has been used in funerals and memorials to symbolize memory and the endurance of the soul. For an altar to the ancestors at Samhain, rosemary is a gentle, fragrant choice.
Vervain, Yarrow, and Elder — these plants carry protective, prophetic, and funerary associations across European folk practice. Vervain (sacred in many pre-Christian rites) and yarrow (used for divination and healing) fit neatly into a Samhain toolkit; elder is thick with stories about threshold trees and the Otherworld, especially in British and Irish lore.
Ways to Use Them in Seasonally Sacred Practice
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Altar of the Turning: Gather an apple or two, a sprig of rosemary, a few mugwort leaves, and a twig of rowan. Place them near a candle and invite God’s presence into gratitude and remembrance.
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Dreaming with Intention: In autumn’s closing nights, dry small mugwort and blend with milder herbs like chamomile. Use as a dream pillow or under the pillow, asking God for guidance or clarity in sleep.
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Fragrant Remembrance: Burn (safely, outdoors or in a fire-safe container) small bundles of mugwort or mugwort + rosemary as a way of lifting memory and prayer into the air over your loved ones who have passed.
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Door Gifts of Grace: Tie together a bit of rowan and rosemary with a ribbon or twine. Hang it near your doorway as a symbol of God’s guardianship over comings and goings.
These are not secret rituals, but simple invitations — gestures of presence, of noticing, and of thanksgiving. At this season, as the light thins, we are reminded that God is not distant in darkness, but ever near — closer than breath, woven through every leaf, every breeze, every quiet turn of season.