Seasonal Four Directions -Constanza

The seasons are an expression of our own lives. 

SAMHAIN is a time of death.

When there is death we experience initial shock, then sadness and finally the equilibrium of acceptance.  Through this time we externalise and feel sorrow that the person mourned no longer enjoys the gift of life themselves.  And sometimes we internalise and feel sorrow that we will not be able to share our lives with them.  At this time anger arises.

How dare you? How can you do this?  How can you leave me now to lost light, to darkened skies?  A heart too cold! This season that dies departs with its warmth to leave me bitter sweet memories of summer's heat.  How dare you?

I am angered by your passing. By your abandoning me to winter's barren days, to morning valley haze.  Mists flow along the Boyne where recently the otter swam, swans nested, and salmon leapt.  How dare the sun depart?

I am angered by your passing. By your limitation to our shared lives.  How can you restrict our time together?  We've sung and danced.  Did it mean nothing to you? You go now and leave me here, alone, to struggle through winter's wasteland.  A heart too cold!  How can you desert me now?

We call to the North, to the skeletons of winter.

I am winter. Wide skies and open landscapes expose what has been hidden. The assets laid down in the times of plenty will now sustain us in these dark and barren times. I cannot conceal my wisdom of the cycle of continuance. I nurture the planners and the planning of life.


Days shorten, nights lengthen, Cold winter, wind blowing,

Ice former, earth freezer, Bare branches, bones showing,

Snow falling, crisp crunching, Earth still now, land resting.


Home comfort, warm inside, Bright candle, fire blazing,

Quiet reading, mind thinking, Spring planning, friends meeting,

New stories, old wisdom, Nights shorten, days lengthen.


IMBOLC is a time of life.

We call to the East, to the freshness of spring.

I am spring. I gurgle and flow with youth. Young lambs play by my side and watch while their mothers drink. Fledgling birds scoop my droplets into their beaks, their first taste of cool refreshing water. I nurture the beginners and beginning of life.


Now we sow the seeds of summer, Cut the grass and pick the snowdrops,


Daffodils and cherry blossom, Primrose on the roadside flowering,

Catkins dance on soft spring breezes, Bluebells scent the dappled wood land,

Newborn lambs prance on the hillsides, Tadpoles swim, their tails a wagging,

Crows are nesting in the treetops, Swallows fly in with the west winds,

Bird song carries on the warm winds, Bat flies out with cooling evenings,

Bright the full moon lighting new growth, Now we sow the seeds of summer.


BEALTAINE is a time of life. 

We call to the South, to the heat of summer.


I am summer. I shine brightly with wholeness, hanging high in the sky. The land grows warm under my gaze. Flowers bloom bright colours, leaves expand and the air is dancing. I nurture the growers and growing of life.


High the sun burns, high, above us, Warm and bright and round and welcome.


Full, the flowers, full, the blossom, Rose and poppy, red and scented.

Bees draw nectar, bees make honey, Storing for the coming autumn.

Green, the leaves spread, green, the corn grows, Oak and beech and birch give cool shade.

Bite, the insects, bite, the lettuce, Tasty meals for all earth’s creatures.

Joy in playing, joy in laughter, Sand and surf and warm sea swimming.

Hot, the dog pants, hot, the sheep shorn, Basking in the long day’s sunshine.

Dry, the land cracks, dry, the plants droop, Thunder rolls and welcome rains fall.


LUGHNASSADH is a time of death.


Harvest is a time to mourn.  We cut and break the dying corn, and leave the fields bare.

In Spring we tell the corn we care, in spring we walk the fields and share Our love with nature's growing life.  But with harvest comes death's long sharp scythe.

Harvest is a time of grief.  We tie the corn into a sheaf and husk and chaff we rip and tear.

Harvest is a time of woe. We claim the seeds we helped to grow, cook them in a burning fire, and oven like an ancient pyre.  We bake the bread to fill our bellies and the corn's great seed discovers what hell is.

A cruel time this harvest season, for summer's high sun reveals the reason why we plant and why we give - it is truly so that others may live.

Harvest is a time of death.  A time to stop and take a breath, and if you live to take another, thank the corn and bless earth mother.  Save some seeds, a few to sow, for from this death new life may grow.

We call to the West, to the fruitfulness of autumn.

I am autumn. I rest amongst the quiet mists, shrouded in the radiant patchwork landscape. The hedges and fields abound with cobwebs and fallen leaves. I am round, full and ripe on my branch. I rejoice in the abundant crops. I nurture the gatherers and the gathering of life.


Through hazy mists Glorious shades Of red and brown Brighten the day.


Leaves underfoot Crackle and crunch, Falling like snow In autumn’s storms.

Blackberry time Crops gathered in, Apples and pears, Harvest the grain.

Swallows fly south, Birds find a roost, Bats fly at dusk, Owls call at night.

Badgers abound, Squirrels hide nuts, Autumn bonfires Form hazy mists.


Page last updated: 12th Jan 2011