By Marcie Martin, Community Contribution
And here we are, though not just anywhere. We’re standing in a season stitched with old hauntings and weathered folklore. According to Celtic lore, this is when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
All Hallow’s Eve for some, Samhain for the ones who tread the old path, Halloween for the many.
A few years before I moved to Charlotte County, I spent a Halloween weekend at the Algonquin just to experience their ghost tour. Yes, I even tiptoed up to the fourth floor by myself late at night, curious to see if I might feel the presence of the infamous Eternal Bride.
As for what happened next, I’ll keep that tale tucked beneath my ribcage for now.
And if you’ll allow a broader perspective—this time of year also belongs to a different type of ghost. Yours, mine, and the ghost of the world we used to know.
Fitting, isn’t it?
We’re living through a threshold moment. Culture, technology, and daily life are shifting faster than we can name, let alone make sense of. Familiar ways have gone out with the tide, and new ones keep rolling in like cold, relentless waves, not quite charted. Adjusting to them can feel like carrying dampness you can’t quite shake.
I share this not to place another stone in your pocket, dear reader, but to offer a small piece of advice. My odd version of Halloween hospitality. A symbolic treat, if you’ll accept it.
This month, in those moments when you find yourself mourning the past—or when the people around you feel more like spectres than companions—or when you feel like a floating orb, unanchored and dim—I invite you to visit your nearest lighthouse.
Pendlebury. Head Harbour. Swallowtail.
Go at dusk. When the air is soft.
Let the lighthouse glow draw your eye across the dark water.
Harbour lights flicker like quiet signals from just beyond the known.
Let it be a new tradition: to return to the lighthouse at the edge of the world each autumn’s turning.
Not to summon ghosts, but to remember you’re not one of them.
And if you do this, I have a quiet sense that even when the tides are quick and the map is unclear, your heart will find its way home again.
Light by quiet light. Beat by steady beat.
And who knows. Bring molasses cookies with you and the kindly spirit of a long-retired lightkeeper just might keep you company under the stars for a little while.
‘Tis the season, after all.
With all sincerity by candlelight,
A merry All Hallow’s Eve to some,
A blessed Samhain to the ones who tread the old path,
And a very Happy Halloween to all.
