Writers Circle Prompt: Halloween, et al, the dead

 

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Spiritual connections between the living and the dead

When asked what Halloween, All Saints Day, and Day of the Dead have in common, AI tells me this:

Halloween, All Saints Day, and Day of the Dead are . . .  are connected to traditions of honoring the dead, with roots in pre-Christian beliefs about spirits returning to Earth. While they are distinct holidays with different cultural meanings, their shared history lies in the transition of the seasons, the cycle of life and death, and the idea of spiritual connections between the living and the deceased. 

We in Pennsylvania are at the time of year when autumn is anticipating its relationship with winter by bringing us cold nights, colorful leaves, and the end of life for many leaves, plants, and insects.  Some animals are feasting to prepare for lengthy hibernations, while others are storing food and sharpening the weapons they have for the hunt.  Birds have started their journeys to the south.  All of this is informed by the tilt of the earth so we are further from the sun with shorter days and longer nights. 
These events are signs of the cycle of life and death, while, in actuality, under the ground new life is preparing its return from roots, bulbs, seeds, and spores.  There is more of a continuance than there is death, a fact that lies behind the ideas of connections between the living and the dead.  At least in biology and botonny, there is a sense that interdependence between life and death is ongoing.  And where physical facts open the way, spirit follows. 
I’m trying to stay away from contemporary religious ideas of heaven, hell, and an afterlife or lack of one when describing the spiritual connection between the living and the dead.  I use the words “resonances” or “essences” as well as spirit to describe the land of the living and death as neighborhoods entangled with each other.  All lives are entangled or contingent, containing resonances of others, echoing each other’s essence.  When I think of it that way, I’m surprised that more of us aren’t aware of the spirits of the dead in our normal lives.  Some especially deep memories of individuals may be seen as experiencing the spirit, but that isn’t enough to explain the connection between the living and the dead.
Many strands of pagan belief point to a time of the year when the boundary between life and death is thinnest so that even a small amount of effort allows essences of the dead to revisit.  Few stories exist of travel in the opposite direction.  In indigenous traditions of the Great Lakes and British Columbia, in Mexican, and In Celtic and Gaelic traditions, that time of year is the end of October and beginning of November, approximate halfway between the autumnal equinox (September 22) and the winter solstice (December 21.  In Celtic Tradition this time is called Samhain and is the origin of Halloween.  Halloween dress-up was originally the “wearing of costumes” to disguise the children from spirits and keep them safe.  Bonfires also helped to block spirits.
The opposite of this is the Mexican Day of the Dead, where spirits are welcomed back to the family with feasting and gifts, welcomed with candles and flowers.  In the indigenous traditions of the Great Lakes region, spirits are welcomed back in a week called Ghost Suppers.  Originally held in the spring, under the influence of Christian missionaries, they changed to the first week of November.  According to AI:

The Ottawa (Odawa) people and other Anishinaabe groups, including the Ojibwe and Potawatomi, celebrate spirits and ghosts through traditional Ghost Suppers. These fall harvest feasts honor deceased loved ones by sharing a meal, with food offered to spirits in a sacred fire. Other Indigenous communities, such as the Kwakwakaʼwakw of British Columbia, also hold ceremonies and rituals to connect with the spirit world. 

In addition to influencing the change to a fall festival, Christianity added All Soul’s day to honor Saints and changed the name of Samhain to All Hallow’s Eve. 
I believe I have been visited by the spirits of beloved deceased.  Deceased cats’ spirits seem to visit on or around Halloween.  A friend’s grandmother appeared to tell me the dishes her daughter liked to eat.  My grandmother also spoke of visits from the dead.  One visit from the dead in particular, I immortalized in a poem:

The Life of Ghosts: a sonnet (original April 2014)

Grandmother held no opinions of death.
She had stories instead, and the best was
her driving on 9-W Highway  
from Albany to home when her eyes closed
And her deceased husband called Maria!
 
She heard My little Maria, wake, wake!
and she did.  She experienced real truths. 
I won’t be cremated, she insisted,
and you yourself should not!  The cremated
do. not. have. visiting. power.  She knew.
 
I have no doubt.  Hadn't she been once a
Queen of a Castle, charged with rule while King
was out?   Didn’t she know how to find wild
mushrooms that could beguile a hungry child?
 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers circle prompt: Transformation: A new sleeplessness

 

Dreams (and gassiness) wake me at 2am and keep
me awake, my head spinning, its earth rhythms pulling
on the moon which pulls at the rivers of my body.  High
tide, low tide.  Blood flows in estuaries while head pings
Someone’s in my apartment! 
No one is here. 
The sofa bed is closed with black cat sleeping on its back
looking sweet—my good luck charm.  I bury my nose in her
softness and feel the first burp moving up my esophagus.  
There is also a river, one body length, mouth to anus with
the digestive track in between.  Standing helps the flow, and
so, I wait by the kettle for a cup of chamomile-lavender tea,
then head to my writing corner and its ever-present laptop.
The aroma of the tea surrounds me.  Together with the
early morning hours the aroma heightens the magic,
and so, I tell the truth—
dreams and gas—
the first I don’t remember, and the second is undeniable. 
Maybe the tea will help.
I was busy during the 3 hours of my sleeping, of that
I am sure.  Shuffling through the themes of my life,
splintered and unstable due to the evils of today
unravelling our democracy and allowing cruelness around
the world—even here. 
I stop.  Waiting.  And remember a movie—
Siege, a 1998 Denzel Washington film
in which the US Army’s 101^st airborne division
enters NY City to put a stop to terrorism.  Its plot
foreshadowed 9/11, and resonates now.  It shows a few
Palestinians bombing buses and buildings,
while the troops apply torture to find the leader
and hold thousands of young Palestinian-Americans
in holding pens.  This cruelty is only ended when
Denzel (of the FBI) finds the leader of the terrorists and
ushers the military out of New York City.
Our US military accompanies ICE into cities
to deport illegal immigrants.  This is what keeps me busy at night—
running and hiding from unregulated violence
released on our own citizens.  Acts of violence pervade the news.
I feel I might get sick, but it’s only gas
working its way out of my system in short violent bursts. 
I’m ready to pass out from exhaustion.  I am safe, maybe,
but the world has changed too much for normal
sleep processes to calm the rivers flowing inside of me. 
I hear the echo of Macbeth’s voice crying Sleep no more
but fall into a deeper sleep until the 8:00am alarm
wakes me.  I wake thinking Macbeth brought
on his own tragedy.  So does the USA.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers Circle Prompt: Labor

 

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Find labor in collaboration, elaboration, and laboratory—that is work is the core of all four.  I found these words in AI, and later confirmed them in online dictionaries. 

Derived from French and Latin, the term “labor” implies "toil, exertion; hardship, pain, fatigue; a work, a product of labor."  Herculean effort is labor such as that of childbirth and other tasks beyond the ordinary daily chores and work tasks which may be laborious, but rely more on continuity than any one extreme effort.  To collaborate is to work together toward a goal, and to elaborate is to exert oneself on details.  I know I am belaboring the point that the core word “labor” is useful in ways that are true to itself. 

Labor Day in the USA is meant to celebrate labor as in laborers and groups of laborers such as found in Labor Unions.  I marched in Labor Day parades as a teacher and member of the AFT—the American Federation of Teachers through the PFT local 3.  I enjoyed the companionship, but resented union dues until I retired.  I knew how much the union mattered to working conditions and salary through negotiated contracts, but these were impersonal benefits.  When I retired and stopped paying union dues, I found that my personal benefits package included ongoing health benefits at a reduced cost as well as limited access to lawyers.  A union lawyer prepared my will, power of attorney, and living will.  I can update these documents every two years at no cost. 

Reflecting on Labor, Labor Day, and teaching brought me back to a poem I wrote during my first year at Simpson House:

(03 September 2024)

September Labor
 
As student and as teacher, I knew
Labor Day heralded the serious new year,
one based on the rhythm of semesters,
and surrounded by city streets, backpacks,
uniforms and rush hour dangers.
 
That rhythm sings to me even as I move
in green landscapes and feel their slower pace.
The gold, orange, red and brown that pop
in schools grow gradually into autumn
with chrysanthemums and maple trees. 
 
Warm days and cool nights invite walks and sleep;
thoughts settle in the hush of birdsong and
distant planes.  Who can miss crowded rooms and
lessons here?  My hands open a book, and
I think idly of holding one among students,
 
three or four of whom are curious
to discover the rough and holy
dimensions of words that unroll like flight
in our minds.  I leave the book open in my lap,
pick up a yellow leaf, twirl it, and
imagine its journey from seed to me.
 

 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writer's Circle Prompt: Gathering: A gathering of friends

 

I was feeling the kind of weariness
that doesn’t rub or sleep off.
The kind that closes my eyes
in the middle of whatever I am doing
be it writing or listening or watching—
when my friend Paul called.  He and his wife,
toddler, and young son could stop by and visit
on their way back to Poland where they live.
 
I woke up in a flash to dash around my home
and pick up the things that were out of place
or harmful to young ones.  Half my weariness
vanished in anticipation, and all left with
their warm welcome and the cool winter air
when I opened the door.  We talked
around the quiet sweetness of the children
occupied with colored pencils and paper.
 
Elwira had finished all the requirements
for her doctorate and was giving a paper
in North Carolina. Paul was visiting his father
and our old Quaker meeting.  I was writing poetry
in and about my retirement community.  We talked
about our old Quaker friends and then turned

to politics.  We agreed on the dangers. 

We had all experienced immovable MAGA politics.
 
We talked past time for them to leave, so we rushed
on coats, packed away photos, and hugged at the door.
What good medicine they were!  I carried my joy and 
stayed wide awake through dinner and a dinner program. 
New friends and acquaintances make me welcome,
but there is nothing like old-time friends to infuse
a tired spirit with love.  Now, I’m tired again, but 
new old friends help me fight off the weary blues.

 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writer's Circle prompt: Love sonnet or simply love

 
Outside Philadelphia
 
I fear to say just who I love, as most
Have died or gone away.  Let’s talk instead
About the land I love, though coast to coast
World round, so many people face pure dread.
 
Here green trees dominate as summer reigns
and rain is plenty for grass and bushes, too.
I love to see the hills above the plain
And city below, with buildings in a queue.
 
We don’t get tornadoes or flood and fires
(I whisper this so I won’t change our luck)
We help those whose condition is dire
So many drowned and missing I’m dumbstruck.
 
As I aged more people I love have died
I pray the land, the beautiful land, survives.

 and

Stay at home with me
by Susan
 
Take care when standing in the sun today—
the glowing orb’s too hot to play a part
in vigils. True, more cars will come this way,
but sun will paint you lobster red as art.
 
And I would rather you stayed home with me.
While I make dinner, you can hear the news
about the heat whose waves we almost see
while you are safe inside this afternoon.
 
I love your commitment to peace, justice,
democracy, and education, but
wish you cared more for safety and for bliss
yes—bliss—as we both eat and play, you nut!
 
Let sun be your reason to stay at home.
Let sun disguise the point of this whole poem.
 
 
 (Note: Thinking of Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia.)

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers Circle Prompt: Haiku

 People march today
to protest the dismantling
of everything.

Does this forest hold
its breath while wires buzz and cars
travel the roadways?

Windows open to
songs of distant birds and
nearby roof nesters.

Sun shines, piercing
everything. This was
worth waiting for.

Sun and clouds play tag.
Clouds appear to be winning, 
but sun fights to shine.

High humidity,
yet birds sing freely while our
freedom of speech dies.

How busy the birds
are! Rushing through the tree tops
and across the fields.
They would object to
caging an innocent, and
would flock to save her.

While the wind rests, birds
on important tasks glide tree 
to tree and beyond.

More grey, with pink and 
white blossoms shining through--
a gift from the sun.

No sunbeams today.
A gentle rain keeps skies grey
while plants and streams drink.

Nine O'clock A.M.,
a sunbeam broke through the grey
cloud cover and hit me 

Soft muddy ground lines 
sidewalks along the way to
our weekday protest.
Two old ladies sit
in rollators, hold signs facing
the road, and count beeps.

Sunny and frigid
and way too quiet despite
breeze in greening trees.
Waiting for the next
shoe to drop, picture DT
with one hundred feet.

Hold your sign high! Sing
"hands off," marching, determined,
to power centers.

Tulip tree petals
form slippery tunnels with
pink above and below.
People march despite 
rain, wind, fog, floods, broken trees,
and downed power lines.

A massive rainfall 
moves across the country, and
we wait in stillness.

While nature sings, I
sit in an early morning
meeting and listen.

I'm trying to break
the cold with music, trying
to hear the trees sing.
 
Lion-like, the black cat
guards my bed, her eyes aglow
in humid half-light.
 
Again and again
the trees counsel to let go
of fear and to thrive.
 
Camellias, tulips,
and lilacs brighten an all
grey and chilly day.
 
Can you hear the song
of trees stretching up to meet
the sun's warmth and light?
 
Our crude President!
How do trees and hills stay so
composed and peaceful?
 
A grey abundance
of rain soaks sleeping fields, and
wakes them into green.
 
"Do not fear moving
forward," the trees say, as if
we were the clouds and wind.
 
The blood moon lunar
eclipse hovered over us,
then left us alone.
 
Let's forget the world
for a minute, and drink in
a tree's spring budding.
 
What, to the forest
Is daylight savings time? Save
the climate instead.
 
Though the air is cold,
happy magnolia blossoms
dance in bright sunshine.
 
How cautiously sun
arrived, peeking through the trees
and telephone poles.
 
Daylight savings time
comes, but doesn't save us from
wrong alliances.
 
Today's sun beckons
us to come out and play, to
come out and protest.
 
No sunbeams today.
A gentle rain keeps skies grey
while plants and streams drink.
 
Coldness takes over
the entire country as its
alliances change.
 
Sunny and frigid
and way too quiet despite
breeze in greening trees.
Waiting for the next
shoe to drop, picture DT
with one hundred feet.
 
A massive rainfall
moves across the country, and
we wait in stillness.
 
High humidity,
yet birds sing freely while our
freedom of speech dies.
 
While the wind rests, birds
on important tasks glide tree
to tree and beyond.
 
Again the sun calls
for us to go outside and
live, love, and save lives.
This is spring rising
over the earth, not stopping,
not compromising.
 
More grey, with pink and
white blossoms shining through--
a gift from the sun.
 
Finally, a bit
of LA's famous sun warms
the walkways and air.
 
Sun shines, piercing
everything. This was
worth waiting for.
 
Equal night and day
edge toward more daylight and
higher temperatures.
Happily, spring will
not read newspapers, will not
freeze in a panic.
 
How busy the birds
are! Rushing through the tree tops
and across the fields.
They would object to
caging an innocent, and
would flock to save her.
 
Hold your sign high! Sing
"hands off," marching, determined,
to power centers.
 
People march despite
rain, wind, fog, floods, broken trees,
and downed power lines.
 
Dampness and grey skies
give way to sun's onslaught. Grass
sparkles and trees sigh.
Everything's taller--
even humans straighten up
and prepare for peace.
Breathe now with the trees
to strengthen spirit, mind, and
heart for endurance.
Feel the power of
deep breaths as your centers
settle on right action.
 
Sun and clouds play tag.
Clouds appear to be winning,
but sun fights to shine.
 
Windows open to
songs of distant birds and
nearby roof nesters.
 
The ICE hits where least
expected, breaking up homes
built slowly over time.
I feel even trees
are holding their breath for where
the next boot will fall.
Meanwhile what's going
on with refugees isn't
in the daily news.
 
People march today
to protest the dismantling
of everything.
Does this forest hold
its breath while wires buzz and cars
travel the roadways?
 
 

 © 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers Circle Prompt: Write about a forest without mentioning color

A woods I know intimately

Behind my grandmother's large Victorian house was a hill.  Actually, there were 2 hills of woods with a valley of tall weeds between them, woods that I liked to imagine were in the foothills of the Catskills, though we were closer to the Hudson River than to the foothills.  This Hudson River Valley site was my playground from ages 7 through 14, as my family lived in an apartment that was part of grandmother's Victorian.  These woods were home to the famous climbing tree that I read about last week.

Two separate paths went to the climbing tree.  One passed around the weedy meadow to a break of stones that led up the sides of both the east and west hills.  Across this wall, I could turn left and climb up the east hill to the climbing tree, walking on the wall while watching out for loose slate and stone and rattle snake homes.  But my favorite way led up along the crest of the east-side hill where an apple tree, ferns, berry fronds, dogwood trees, and young pines stood back from the stony and moss-covered path.  I could walk here without brushing into the wild plants.  The reindeer moss was my favorite, as it inched over the more common mosses and lichens.  The way led up and down one rise and then another and another, each time rising higher and not going as low.  The climbing tree lay near the third crest just before a more intact stone wall with spindly pines on the other side.  The woods changed here to a pine needle carpet under pine trees.  The ferns and berries and dogwoods disappeared.  About 50 feet into this new forest, a cliff broke the hill in two--a cliff with a swift moving stream leading down toward the Hudson River.  My brother and I would slide down the shale on the least steep cliff edge and then walk on stepping stones to the middle of the stream where we sat with our legs dangling in the cold water.  We shared the stream with honey bees who were too busy to bother us.  And we never tried to follow them either, though we know they made their honey in one of the trees in the woods.

The stream, woods, and two hills were the southern border of my grandmother's 40 acres.  Her Victorian home sat in the opening to the valley full of weeds--tall flowers and tall grass, milkweed, bachelor buttons, thistle, burdock, Queen Ann's lace, and weeping willow trees.  The west woods held more varieties of trees than pines, with maple, oak, and horse chestnut the most numerous.  At least, that's how I remember it.  The ground had crumbling leaves instead of pine needles.  The hillside was a steep slant upwards with no subtle turnings.  And an old vacated chicken house sat near the bottom.  After my family helped to clean and paint the interior, this was a fine place to be alone, though I had to share it with spiders and flies as well as hornets, moths, my brother, and my cousin.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writer's Crcle Prompt: Rarity Hunger // Climbing tree

 

Prompt RARITY: Hunger

When I started writing to the prompt of rarity, I tried to think of something rare and beautiful like a gem, a flower, or a butterfly.  And, indeed, I did think of them: jade, edelweiss, and little white butterflies.  I also tried to come up with short funny stories—pretty rare with me.  But my mind kept coming back to Gaza and food and water scarcity, whereas what’s rare with me is hunger:

I pledged to fast on World Hunger Day, May 28^th,
But was weak-willed on the follow through. 
I had sandwich meat and lettuce in the fridge,
and cookies in my kitchen cabinet. 
 
If those who hunger had the same backup,
we wouldn’t be talking about genocide.
War and climate emergencies have left shelves
truly empty.  Store shelves are empty, too.
 
People are rioting for food at the few
UN stations that are open in Gaza.
The news isn’t broadcasting what’s happening
in Sudan, so it could be even worse there.
 
And I cannot even make it through a one day
fast without eating what’s on my shelves.
I would not survive the food famines of
our times.   Here the market is open.
 
What is rare in Gaza is a loaf of
bread and a bottle of wine—or water.
What is rare with me is hunger. 

 Of course, I am using the words incorrectly.  Rare or rarity refers to something precious and more so because there is little of it, whereas scarce and scarcity refers to something generally abundant but not here and now.  So is hunger rare or scarce with me?  And is food rare or scarce in Gaza?

Prompt: Rarity Climbing tree

We had a perfect pine tree to grow up with.  It was a long-needled pine located on the top of wooded hill.  Alongside it ran a low stone wall made from the shale and rock of the hill and field that must have lived behind it at one time.  The pines there seemed young next to our perfect pine tree, since they were all easy to reach around with a child’s arms.  Our white pine could only be reached around with two children’s arms open wide.  Its lower branches touched the ground and the wall.  It was our climbing tree.  Three children often sat in the lower branches, swinging our legs and watching our mother or grandmother sketch.  I would climb to the second level, but my bother climbed up to the height where branches were too close together to navigate. For me, the long-needled pine was also a story tree.  The carpet of orange pine needles, especially where it touched the stone wall, seemed the perfect place for fairies and elves to have their homes.  The dog Mitzi, who ran up the hill alongside us, sniffed at the tiny doorways like a hungry monster looking for prey.  The occasional chipmunk who ran along the wall didn’t alter my stories.  After all, in the tree I was the height of a giant myself, and nothing could reach me. 

I wrote a poem about it which is in my first book. 

The Climbing Tree
by Susan L. Chast
 
 
Mom drew the long-limbed pine while I watched chipmunks
and fairies run and hide from me in reindeer-mossed
hobbit homes under the brown-skinned roots
of the ancient tree surrounded with rattlesnake-filled
stone walls where cows once grazed in the old days. 
I climbed quietly to a still low limb to scout until pine  
tickled my nose into a sneeze.
 
Later I dreamed untamed forests full of elves, lost
ghosts knocking on our walls and windows, and magic
so loud I couldn’t sleep and indeed the morning footprints
dotted across the driveway could have been their horses
and not the deer trespassing to chew lettuce
with the rabbits, little Peter Cotton tail in the lead
as they ran before the morning sun
 
I leaned my rake against the fence, clothes pinned
the towels on the line until they swept the ground,
and scolded the crows and red-winged blackbirds,
robins, and starlings and swifts not to eat
mulberries over the fresh wash and to leave
some on the tree for me to eat with milk before
I visited the climbing tree.
 
Was it gone?  Did it Brigadoon away when the night 
moon played tricks on pathways and tree limbs?
One more rise to climb and then another—
I knew it was closer yesterday, but not as close as when
my older brother or mom came along to play or when
the faeries slipped a dime under my pillow
in exchange for a tooth.
 
Now, where did the faeries put the teeth?  I scuffed
the thick mat of rusty needles to find them,
reached into nooks and climbed higher to see
if they hid my teeth up in the tree. And I heard
mom laugh at me, but she also told me stories
when my grandfather’s geese chased her, bit her
heels and chased her home
 
That is when Rip Van Winkle started bowling.
The skies turned angry with fat cheeks blowing
hard to shake us from the limbs--and this time
everyone ran: elves and faeries, mom and brother
and me, deer, rabbit, horses, ghosts, leaves and rattle
snakes just like the cards in Alice’s trial leaping
and falling for shelter and towels and naps
and dreams.
 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers Circle Prompt: Red

 
1.    Red shoes
2.    Red dress
3.    redress
4.    Red sky in the morning
5.    Danger
6.    Stop
7.    Red roses
8.    Love
9.    Valentines
10.   Red pen
11.   Fresh blood
12.   Aggression
13.   Passion
14.   Scarlet
15.   Seeing red
16.   Red car
17.   Red sox
18.   Red hat
19.   Red nail polish
20.   Red shawl
21.   Red hair
22.   In the red
23.   Red crayon
24.   Red states and blue states
25.   The Reds
26.   Cardinal
27.   Cincinnati
28.   Robin red-breast
29.   Red carpet
30.   Hollywood
31.   Tomatoes
32.   Apples
33.   Strawberries
34.   Raspberries
 

source

 Seeing Red

Clearly there’s not enough red in my life.  I brainstormed for 25 minutes on the topic, and came up with 33 red items and associations that I have no story about at all, things like red dress, red nail polish, red carpet, fresh blood, red states, and cardinals.

I owned a red car once during the time I was an assistant professor at the College of William and Mary.  I was stopped by the police 2x in it for speeding.  I argued that I was going the same speed as everyone else, but was stopped because my car was red.  No one listened.  I paid the tickets and that was that.    I have a red shawl that I use as a throw for a living room chair.  It was not a gift but an impulsive purchase.  There are no stories here.

I have never been "a red"—neither communist nor a fan of the Red Sox, Cardinals or Cincinnati reds.   I love cardinals, the bright bird of winters in the northeast.  I love red raspberries, red apples, and red skies. 

Red morning skies mean danger or bad weather.  Red alerts.  I put red Band-Aids on scratches to hide the angry red blood.   I wish band-aids could stop death from aggression and war, but others say “No more Band-Aids.  We want a real solution.”  Yes.  Just the same, I wish they’d stop on all sides.  I draw their blood with red crayons. 

I edit poems with red pens.  Red is the color of passion, of love, of valentines, of roses (though I prefer yellow ones).  Red is the color of the carpet that honors royalty and sets off the clothing of Hollywood film stars. 

There is more red in my life than there is yellow or orange.  You see it in my clothes and my living room rug and chairs. 

No apologies.
Red bursts on the scene and stops
movement. Then turns green.
 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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