This is the time of year when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest, they say. A thin veil facilitates communication with our ancestors, those who have passed into the other/underworld, the beyond. They are close enough now to feel the heat from our breath. They are right here, upon us.
I suspect the veil between our conscious minds and the chthonic dark of our own personal unconscious thins during these days, too. I suspect we have greater access to our own unknown bits, should we desire such a thing.
I myself, do desire such a thing. I relish every opportunity I stumble upon to dive into my own interiority; access to the illuminated darkness of my own psyche feels like a treat indeed. I have never wanted to engage my ancestors, however. Beyond the perfunctory nod to my genetic inheritance, I have all but scorned the people I come from. I have next-to-never wanted to feel their presence in my life or name the stories they silently sung to me as I've grown. Their existence has only proved a source of terror for me: from them I have inherited the bitterness of unrealized dreams and a mountain of tedious unrest. I have inherited the blueprints for a drinking problem and a dangerously compulsive nature. I have inherited self-hatred. It has never felt useful to honor the broken people behind me, for they gave me nothing but their brokenness.