I haven’t celebrated Samhain with all the trappings for years now.
The carved pumpkin heads, black and gold candles, myrrh-heavy incense, robes and a cast circle haven’t been seen around my place for a good long time.
That doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten to mark the first day of Winter. Rather, the marking has become almost entirely internal rather than demonstrative for me, and I’m happy with that.
I might be fortunate to be someone with enough intelligence and training to be able to work out for myself when the mid-point between Solstice and Equinox falls, four times a year and hence have less need to display my acknowledgement of the Sun’s apparent position in the sky.
Or I might be a person who hasn’t much need for the validation of others when marking time.
Or I might be a person whose interior life is just growing richer as I go on whirling on a rock around a big ball of hydrogen fissioning into helium.
Whatever the reason, my withdrawal from external displays of Sabbat hasn’t stopped my ancestors gathering around me when the time draws near, or me dreaming of them every night, conversing with generations I have never known while alive, or inviting them to accompany me throughout my day.
For perhaps that’s the point – no day is mundane any longer, and no experience anything other than holy.