On the Spiritual Aspect of Halloween

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I have always loved the autumn. The cooler air, the deep, rich colors, the shifts in daylight; and yes—the heavier, warmer foods and attire that are part of the shifting season package. My “Vata Dosha” (the who?—something my yogi friends would get and isn’t too relevant at the moment) is supposed to really not like this time of year. And even though my body has a serious cold intolerance (I mean SERIOUS), I have still always felt some sort of magic in the air, chills notwithstanding.

Somewhere between the cooling temperatures that take place a few weeks post–Labor Day and Thanksgiving sits Halloween—smack dab in the middle-ish of it all. I realize that it’s become a very commercial holiday laced with sweets and costumes, but there had to be a reason that it’s celebrated at the time it is.

I’ve briefly read in the past that it was a Pagan tradition that the church latched onto to help converts to Christianity experience something familiar. I knew about the European tradition of the jack-o’-lantern. And last year, when my husband and I were in South Africa on Halloween Day, I wondered why it wasn’t celebrated much in the Southern Hemisphere.

I grew up going to Catholic school. Halloween for me was exciting, not just for the trick-or-treating, but because the next day was All Saints’ Day and we had no school.

I also know that Mexico celebrates this same time with a Day of the Dead celebration, Día de Muertos.
Saints? The dead? This kind of had something in common, right?

This year I volunteered to teach a yoga class on Halloween evening. While considering how not to avoid saying anything about the day of the year it is in class, I went on an online hunt to find the spiritual meaning behind this tradition. I found it fascinating enough to share what our elders may have been sensing when they established this time of year for this tradition.

I learned that Halloween really isn’t celebrated in the Southern Hemisphere because it’s the seasonal shift from warmth to coolness that makes the veil between our world and others feel thin. Southern Hemisphere traditions mark a similar shift in their own seasonal timing, which makes sense as that time of year mirrors what we are experiencing now.

The idea of a thin veil would make it easier to honor and feel connected to those who have passed—hence Mexico’s Day of the Dead.

But why now?

I couldn’t find much online, even on what I would consider to be “junky” sites. From my own understanding of nature, it actually does make sense that it is now. We just experienced the height of summer, and that strong “yang” energy is starting to dwindle away. The mix of lingering warmth and emerging coolness seems to naturally slow us down and turn us inward.

It’s an interesting time of year from the Ayurvedic perspective, the way I understand it, in that we are entering a cyclical time of letting go, with plant and tree life ending and the preparation of the cold, frozen season ahead. Additionally, at this time the elements feel briefly balanced—earth, water, fire, air, and ether. That balance, paired with the transition from life to dormancy, feels like a natural point of connection to the broader cycles of the universe.

As above, so below—in that the laws of nature are consistent everywhere, in the heavens as on earth. Birth and early life (spring), the high point of life (summer), the elder years and letting go (fall), and the quiet, unseen preparation for new life (winter). There is no true end point—it just continues to cycle and transform.
So without getting any more wonky than I’m starting to sound, I’m going to end it here. If you’ve followed my attempt to explain my crazy point—great! And if not, that’s ok too. Maybe a seed you would like to cultivate has been planted. Or perhaps this is just all a bunch of nonsense that many of us like to dabble in while we have fun celebrating Halloween, watching scary movies, and dressing up as something we normally wouldn’t. It’s all in good fun.

In preparation for my yoga classes this week, I think I’m going to focus on embracing the unknown and the lessons this time of year can offer us—learning to sit with what feels uncertain, honoring cycles of both life and loss, and recognizing that growth often begins in places we can’t yet see clearly.
Enjoy all that nature has to offer!

Peace

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On the Sun, Moon & Tides

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Over the past few weeks, due to two different workshops I have attended, I’ve been very interested in learning a little more about the moon and its cycles. Coincidentally, and unrelated to the workshops, an organization I volunteer for is having a retreat in the Catskills one weekend to learn more about the moon.

The moon affects our tides and the sea. They are predictable, as predictable as the sun rising and setting. We can look up the sunrise, moon phases, and tide tables for the next hundred years and be sure that is what is going to happen.

For my birthday this year, Daren booked a trip a few months ahead to one of our favorite destinations in the world—York, ME. We are here now. We left yesterday afternoon and drove up in the pouring rain. As we pulled into the Airbnb he rented on the water, the rain stopped and the sun began an attempt to peek through the grey clouds.

Situated at the end of a small street extension, the quaint New England house from the outside was adorable. As we opened the lockbox to get the key, I was already sad we only had three nights here.

We opened the door to the house and were instantly in awe of the view of the ocean from inside. The inside was even more special. We went upstairs to drop off our bags, and the view from the master bedroom was even more amazing. I felt my heart slow down, my blood pressure decrease, and an overall sense of peace. I love coming to Maine. We have vacationed here with the kids and alone for at least six years now. It’s like coming home.

There is something about being near the ocean that calms me and feels like home. The smell of marine life, the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the mystery and vastness… how it can look so different at any time of the day or year. Between the tide changes, sun position, and weather, it never gets old.

We only live about 45 minutes from the Long Island Sound, but it’s the furthest I’ve lived from the water in my life. It’s probably no coincidence that at this time in life I suffer from anxiety. There are definable other factors too—the second half of life, blended family woes, being more spiritual—but I can’t discount the lack of water in my life.

In a workshop I attended last week, I learned that water absorbs our heavy energies and carries it away. I can almost feel this. It might be why I feel like a completely different person when we spend time in the house that we have on the Airbnb market in Branford, CT.

I feel that being near the water and being more directly, physically affected by the tides also helps to put us more in touch with nature. For example, here in Maine and in Branford, certain beaches don’t even exist at high tide. At our home in Branford, during low tide you can actually walk down the steps in our yard to the cove and over to the Sound or across to another house, or during high tide you can use those same steps to kayak away from the house. Fishermen, seaside towns, and many maritime cultures alike live and plan their day by the tides. When you accept that you can only do certain things as nature provides them to you, I feel it can help you accept that we can’t always manipulate life and that it’s important to live with the elements. Overall, we become more adaptable, well-adjusted people who can steer a sailboat (figuratively) using the elements of life rather than trying to fight them.

At our home in Branford, I provide our renters with a sunrise and sunset schedule so they can decide if they would like to watch it. I let them know where the best places are, whether it be in our yard or down the street, to catch either. I also provide a little chart with the tides and phases of the moon. The full moon at the beach 100 steps from our front door is not a sight to be missed on a clear night. The tides in our area will dictate when you can sit on the beach or kayak.

I don’t think many folks know why, but in many comments in the guest book or on the sites where the vacation rental is listed, our guests have commented on how calm they feel and that they felt so connected to nature there.

Living in, around, and with nature helps us feel connected to it. In our modern lives, we almost never feel that connection. Somehow the trees’ leaves just appeared, or it was daytime. Sensing the change and being witness to the artistic beauty the universe provides helps me to feel connected to the universe itself. Being connected gives me clarity about the role of my small, selfish thoughts in the big picture, helps me feel the divine connection I have to everyone and everything, and helps me want to just be a better person.

Below, in order, is the view as I write this blog this morning, the sunrise that woke us up from the master bedroom window, and some lobster traps left for the season at Perkins Cove last night

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/tide/

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A Frigid New England Morning

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I take a deep breath on this frigid New England morning. The air feels cold and steely in my lungs, but at the same time incredibly refreshing compared to the recirculated, dry, warm air in the house just two feet behind me. I am barefoot on the small, colorful, and very wet welcome mat on my back deck. From inside, it looked a bit warmer out, but one inhale tells a different story.

The thermometer reads 22 degrees Fahrenheit. Even though the air is cold and frigid, there are several signs that spring is on the way. The most exciting sign for me is the red buds on the trees that border our yard. Despite the cold, the trees are aware of the subtle shifts in the atmosphere and are preparing to put forth an abundance of greenery in just a few short weeks. While I’m looking out, I can see frost on top of the barbecue cover, yet I hear birds singing and chirping in the air. That is not something I can say in February. Just the mere fact that the porch furniture was put out means there was a day warm enough not long ago that prompted us to ritualistically begin preparations for the warmer months.

In the evenings, while lying in bed, I am able to hear the peeper frogs through my closed bedroom window. In the late spring and summer, when we sleep with the windows open, we not only hear the peepers, but all types of crickets and woodsy life through the evening.

For months, the ground has been receiving precipitation in the form of freezing rain and snow. But the ground was solid, even during some of the unusually warm 50-degree days in the past few months. Despite the cold, the extra sun is warming the ground enough to keep a thaw, as evidenced by my weight digging ever so slightly into the dirt. This I notice while walking the dog after dinner or while cutting across the lawn to grab the mail.

As I stand on the deck looking out, I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. Summer is on the way. The cover on the grill will be perpetually removed as we spend many evenings cooking outside instead of in the kitchen. The deck furniture will constantly be moved, full of crumbs and stained with ketchup due to the many hours we spend shifting chairs from the sun, pulling one closer to watch a movie together around a laptop, and eating almost every meal al fresco.

A look over the deck down to the yard below has my heart fluttering a bit more. We have a really large garden that is now empty down the hill in our sloped yard. Very soon, the asparagus tips will start shooting out from the ground on the right side of the garden, just outside the wooden borders but inside the fence where we planted them several years ago. The strawberries will soon follow. Every year, those crazy strawberries try to invade the neighboring soil in the garden after a few weeks above ground, but each year we gently pull back the little green runners that latch quite firmly into the dirt.

In the summertime, the garden is brimming with all types of crops—kale, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, beets, squash, eggplant, peppers, green beans, herbs like basil, parsley, oregano, mint… and more. Each year we try our hand at a few new seeds. One of the finest ways I feel connected to nature is preparing meals with ingredients that came from our garden.

There is a point every year where the yield is almost too much to keep up with—especially the kale, spinach, and lettuce. Almost daily, I take a trip down the hill to pick the greens. Carefully cutting the leaves back to the main stem keeps the plants producing all season, but it’s quite time-consuming. The bugs are wild at that time of year. At least half the time, I forget to slather on bug repellent and get completely mobbed by whatever is out there.

Often, the sun is so hot that by the time I finish cutting back the greens, the ones I started with begin to wilt. Avoiding that wilt requires several trips back into the air-conditioned house, where they will stay fresh until I have a chance to clean them. Getting back into the house is tricky business because my sandals, legs, and behind are muddy, and I need to trek up the hill in the scorching sun. The trip doesn’t stop at the hill—I still need to climb the steep deck steps. It really isn’t too far, but by the time I reach the back door, I’m often panting from the exertion.

A cool wave of air hits me when I open the door. Unlike the frigid air this morning—which felt like an unpleasant but natural shock—the air-conditioned air in the summer feels pleasant, yet completely unnatural. I have to take off my shoes so as not to drag mud into the house. I creep inside, trying not to touch anything or shake the greens too much, as this will create all kinds of dirt and mess.

After several trips to the garden to avoid wilting, it’s another several minutes—sometimes hours—of processing the greens. They need to be soaked through several rounds, then spun and bagged. There is always more than we can ever eat, so our neighbors, coworkers, and friends often become the unwilling—yet very thankful—recipients of our labor.

I take a step back from the railing overlooking the hill. The deck feels cold and frigid under my bare feet with every step I take. As long as I don’t move, my feet seem to warm the peeling wood beneath them. My next thought wanders to that peeling wood—we need to paint it again. It needs to be painted or touched up annually, despite the promises on every deck paint label that show freshly painted decks with five-year guarantees.

That’s another chore to add to the to-do list. As will be the weekly hassle of weeding, in addition to the more-than-weekly imposition of mowing the lawn, weed whacking, and cleaning up the mulch that looks awful after lawn clippings or dog digging. Not to mention the constant sweeping of the deck, walkway, and sidewalk in front of our home.

As I look around the yard, my heart starts to flutter in anguish this time, thinking about how much work summer is. Why am I looking forward to it? Winter seems nice and simple, as the upkeep of the home is only a fraction of what summer requires when you have a large lawn and garden. I rather enjoy coming home in the dark at four in the afternoon, changing into comfy clothes, and settling onto the sofa with a good book by the fire for the evening. It feels wrong at this time of year, at 6:45 pm, to not be fully dressed. While the sun might be shining, it’s way too cold to enjoy the outdoors.

At the moment, I’m cold, and I have nothing on except flimsy pajama pants and my daughter’s college sweatshirt. I make the crazy decision to walk down the steep stairs of the deck to take a look around the yard. There is the fire pit in the grass and the Adirondack chairs sitting under the deck, waiting for their time to come out for the summer. We have a swing under the deck with an orange cushion and two pillows that is great for summer reading, but also a prime spot to be bitten by mosquitoes.

I start to walk around the house up the hill and remember how steep it is. I am reminded of the flower bed on the side of the house that is a whole lot of work to keep up as well. My heart starts to pound now as I exert energy climbing the hill while my lungs take in the frigid air.

As I round the flower bed and step into my driveway, I see the crocuses that came up a few weeks ago in full bloom. They are the first of the flowers to emerge. Their little green shoots are often seen in late February. Just a quick look at them makes my heart slow down a little.

As I come up the walkway, I see more crocuses on the flower bed on the other side of the house. They too are in full bloom. And right next to them are daffodils that are about to burst forth. Their yellow petals are still closed, but any day now they will open into their full beauty.

I smile internally. I love the flowers in the summer. I love pruning them, cleaning up around them, and bringing many of them into the house. All summer, we have fresh flowers throughout the house. Every time I look at them, I am awed by their beauty. It is one of my favorite things about summer.

As is having the windows open at night. As are the fresh fruit pies I make, the salads we often eat, the fresh tomatoes… oh my.

All seasons are beautiful in their own way. When the days start to become shorter and the mornings in late August and early September grow chillier, I begin to dread the winter. I can’t conceive how it could be dark in the morning or in the evening. I can’t imagine not sitting out on the deck for meals or reading in the evenings by the light of tiki torches and the sound of crickets.

But as the days do begin to shorten, I thoroughly enjoy the colors of the trees, the browning of the flower beds and garden, and pulling out the sweaters and fuzzy boots. While there is a certain satisfaction and connection to nature from caring for the outside for several hours and then enjoying the view with a cool beverage, there is also a contentment in putting away the garden tools and lawn furniture for the winter and turning inward.

I walk back into my home through the front door and feel the unnatural warm blast of air hit me while I wipe the dirt from my feet on the doormat, closing out the frigid morning behind me.

I’m content.

Nature is beautiful, and I’m feeling completely grateful.

via Daily Prompt: Frigid

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On Lessons from the Garden

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

 

We have a fairly large personal garden at our home. There are flowers, shrubs, vegetables, trees, bushes, and fruit. I spend a lot of time in our garden during the warmer months, and for a while now I’ve been wanting to write about the thoughts that come to me when I’m out there.

The first time I spent a considerable amount of time weeding as an adult was at the condo I lived in in Naugatuck. It was a really small patch of dirt in front of the house, but I spent hours picking weeds and rocks from that little space that I “owned.” It was early spring, and I wasn’t sure what was going to come up out of the ground and what might be a weed.

It was incredibly therapeutic, and what I loved most was how easily my mind wandered while I worked. I remember thinking about how hard it can be to tell the difference between what belongs and what doesn’t—both in the garden and in life. I went out there many times over a few weeks, removing rocks, turning over the soil, planting seeds and flowers. That small garden took off, and from that point on, I only needed to go out occasionally to tend to it.

In my next house, we had much more land—and much more yard work. It became a weekly chore through the spring and summer. At first, it felt time-consuming and a bit overwhelming. I would go out, pull weeds, toss them aside, even out the mulch, then move on to trimming and mowing. But something would always happen once I got started.

As much as I dreaded it beforehand, once I was out there with my hands in the dirt, I could lose myself for hours. I would notice small changes from week to week, watch the worms, pull tiny weeds, dig up deep roots and old rocks. When I was finished, I loved sitting down with a book or a glass of wine and looking at everything from afar. The difference was always noticeable—not just in how it looked, but in how it felt.

Fast forward to my current home. When we moved here in 2012, Daren created a beautiful garden with multiple flower beds and a large vegetable area. I loved the idea of it, but it felt like too much. For the first few years, we barely kept up. We would go out once a month and tackle huge, overgrown weeds. The vegetable garden—the one we actually depended on—was full of them. No matter what we tried, they were always there.

When we finished, it looked better, but it didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel connected to it or proud of it. All I could see were the smaller weeds we hadn’t gotten to yet, and it felt like a constant reminder of something unfinished. It started to feel like a burden rather than something we had created.

Last summer, when I started working part-time, something shifted. I began going out into the garden once a week. At first, it was still a lot of work, but slowly, as I stayed consistent, things started to change. The big weeds became manageable, and the smaller ones were easier to stay ahead of. Eventually, I found a rhythm.

I began doing more than just weeding—smoothing out the mulch, trimming, rearranging rocks, cleaning the outdoor spaces. I started to care about the details again, and just like before, I found myself looking forward to it. When I stepped back and looked at the garden, it finally felt alive, like it was cared for and reflecting something back to me instead of weighing on me.

This year, I’ve been able to get out there even earlier. I know the space more intimately now. I know where the soil is thick, where the water collects, where the weeds tend to grow, and how to tell the difference between something I planted and something that doesn’t belong. To someone not paying attention, it all looks the same, but when you’re close to it regularly, the differences become obvious.

There are patterns in the garden that feel a lot like patterns in life. Everything starts from the same place—dirt. Something that seems so simple, but holds the potential for everything. If you plant something there, it will try to grow it. It doesn’t judge what you put into it; it just responds. What grows depends on what’s planted and how it’s tended.

If you don’t pay attention, you’ll get a mix of whatever shows up. Some of it might be beautiful, and some of it might take over everything else. Thoughts feel similar. What we focus on and give attention to are the things that grow. If we don’t notice what we’re planting or what’s taking root, it can become difficult to tell what belongs and what doesn’t.

Weeds can look a lot like the things we meant to grow, especially in the beginning, and if they’re not dealt with early, they spread. They compete for space, for energy, and for light, much like unresolved issues or habits that quietly take over when left unattended. But just like in the garden, none of this is personal. It’s not a failure; it’s simply how things work.

Weeds are inevitable, and the same is true for challenges in life. Growth requires both what we consider good and bad—sun, rain, wind—and those elements help everything become stronger over time. Tending to anything—really tending to it—takes time, attention, and a willingness to notice the details while also stepping back to see the bigger picture.

That might be the hardest part. We want a lot of things in life, but we can’t tend to everything. There’s only so much time, energy, and attention to go around. When we try to take on too much, the quality of all of it suffers.

I’ve seen that in my own life. Stepping back from full-time work and focusing on fewer things has allowed me to care for them more deeply. I see the details, feel more connected, and take more pride in what I’m doing. The garden reflects that.

The more time I spend in nature, the more connected I feel to it and to something quieter underneath everything else. There’s a kind of clarity that comes when you step away from noise and simply pay attention. The more I listen, the more it feels like the answers I’m looking for aren’t far away—they’re already here, if I slow down enough to notice them.

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