A Chapter Yet Written

Halloween is the modern-day Samhain, a word that translates from Irish as "summer's end."

I am moving to County Mayo, Ireland next month, arriving exactly as the land settles into its deep winter sleep. It feels incredibly fitting. In the old Celtic calendar, this isn’t the end of the year—it is the beginning. It is a reminder that all life starts in the dark soil, that a new day begins at midnight, and that a new life chapter can take root in the quiet shadow-season.

Right now, the elements are stripping down, preparing to lay still under winter's cover. There is a sacred purpose to arriving on this timeline, during a season of quiet.

As I prepare to cross the Atlantic, it offers me a time to surrender into the unknown. The ancient Celts believed that during this time, the veils between worlds grow thin. We wear costumes, masking who belongs to this world or the other, wondering whose face looks back at us from the shadows, all while honoring the ancestors who walked before us.

For me, that honoring is deeply personal. County Mayo is where my mother was raised, and many of my relatives still reside. I am not just moving to a new country; I am walking backward into my own bloodline, stepping directly into the soil that grew my family tree.

Before I step across this threshold, my heart is anchored in deep gratitude for the chapter I am closing. I cannot open to the next without honoring the beautiful, messy, and necessary pages that brought me to this boundary. I thank this final chapter for everything it taught me, every version of myself it held, and the quiet strength it gave me to let go.

I am stepping out of an old life and into an unwritten one, greeting myself anew on the wild edges of Mayo. Surrounded by family yet entering the great unknown, I am not rushing to figure everything out the moment I land. I am going to let the low Atlantic mists and early twilights teach me how to trust the unseen. I am ready to let the shadows clear in their own time, trusting that this winter stillness will restore my vision, ready to spring forth when the next season arrives.

As I stand at this boundary, I invite you to step up to your own. What is nature asking you to release in this season of shedding? What heavy cloaks or old stories are you ready to lay down under winter’s cover? I invite you to take part in your own version of stripping away.

Let yourself sit in the quiet, trust the unseen space left behind, and join me in discovering what can grow from the fertile dark.

I look forward to hearing what transpires in your new chapter.

Much love & blessings, Regina