It’s Samhain (Halloween) night, and I’m playing harp in the front room in between visits from trick or treaters, who are thick on the ground this year. We’ve had nearly 30 visitors to our door, which may be a new record for this house.
I’m working on a piobaireachd with Simon, my teacher, and at the moment it is going well, but he hasn’t yet introduced the more dizzying variation sets that will likely reveal my dyslexia in all of its strange permutations. There is no complaint from me, however. I am happy.
This week I placed the photos of my beloved dead on the Samhain altar in my dining room, and just this morning after my harp lesson I cut a late bouquet of flowers in the garden. The echinacea, pineapple sage in bright red, and black and blue salvia are still strongly blossoming, and so is that elegant old rose, Glamis Castle. The dried Indian corn is from a small crop I grew in a garden at the old house over a decade ago.
Back to my laments, which tonight, are a fitting offering for the ancestors.