Before Halloween, There Was Samhain:

Categories: Natural Health

December 10, 2025

Honoring the Herbs, Flavors, and Fires of the Season

“The scent of rosemary, the smoke of sage, the whisper of bay — the old language of the earth still speaks if we pause long enough to listen.”

— Beth Schreibman Gehring, from Forage & Gather

Before Halloween, there was Samhain, the ancient Celtic turning of the year when the harvest ended and winter began to breathe at the edges of the fields. It was the time when fires were lit high on the hills to call the sun back, when families gathered to share what they’d grown, and to honor what they’d lost. They believed that on this night, the veil between worlds grew thin so that those who came before might wander close for just a moment, drawn by the scent of wood smoke and the warmth of the hearth.

The herbs of this season are the same ones that have long carried us through the threshold times, the in-between spaces when the light fades and the earth exhales. I think of them as old friends who know how to steady us when the days grow short.

There’s sage, soft and silver-green, still clinging to its place in the garden even after the first frost. I love to rub a leaf between my fingers and feel that scent rise — grounding, clarifying, a little wild. It has always been the herb of wisdom, the keeper of the kitchen and the spirit. A pot of beans simmering with sage on the stove is a fragrant blessing in itself.

Then there’s rosemary, standing tall and proud, even as everything else begins to fade. Its sharp, piney perfume cuts through the damp air like memory itself. I think of the old saying, “rosemary for remembrance” and how perfect it is for this moment when we look both backward and forward. A bit of rosemary in the oven, tucked beside roasting apples or potatoes, fills the house with the scent of love and continuity.

Thyme creeps along the ground at the edge of my garden, still green and fragrant when most things are spent. It’s such a small plant, but what courage it carries. Even now, when I toss a handful of thyme into a pot of soup, it feels like I’m stirring in a little courage — quiet, steady, and sure.

And bay, the evergreen that holds its strength year-round. I slip a leaf into my stews for flavor, but also for luck. The ancients said that bay was the tree of vision — that its scent could open the mind and steady the heart. When I stir the pot, I think of how the laurel was once a crown of victory and wisdom, and how its simple leaf still brings a certain peace to the kitchen.

And finally, there is mugwort, the dreamer’s herb, silver on the underside like moonlight on water. It grows wild and a bit untamed along roadsides and field edges. People once hung it over doorways for protection or tucked it into pillows to invite meaningful dreams. Burned gently as incense, its smoke was said to bless thresholds to clear the crossings when the veil grew thin. It carries the scent of old stories and distant knowing, a reminder that intuition has its place among the harvest herbs, too.

These are the companions of the Samhain season, the herbs that watch over the turning of the seasonal wheel. Together they tell a story of strength, remembrance, and release.

When I think of Halloween now, I imagine those same fires rekindled in our own small ways. We light candles in pumpkins instead of bonfires on the hills. We share sweets instead of apples and nuts from the orchard. But the spirit is the same: warmth against the dark, joy in the gathering, gratitude for all that’s been given.

It’s easy to bring a bit of that old-world feeling back into our homes. I like to set a pot on the stove with rosemary, orange peel, cinnamon, and clove, letting the steam scent the house and chase away the chill. Sometimes I bake rosemary-apple hand pies or a loaf of pumpkin bread with sage and thyme, filling the kitchen with the fragrance of harvest. And when there are children about, we’ll make little herbal charms — muslin bags filled with cinnamon, lavender, and bay, tied up with ribbon for “good dreams” and “cozy nights.” They love the scent, and they love being part of the season’s secret work.

Sometimes I’ll build a small fire outside on one of these cool October nights, just enough to feel the warmth on my hands. It’s an old habit — I keep a basket filled with herbs for tossing into the flames. Sage, rosemary, bay for blessing, and a pinch of mugwort when I want to honor the mystery of the season. The scent rises from the flames like a prayer, curling into the night air, carrying gratitude for all that has been harvested and hope for what will return. There’s something deeply comforting in that, the simple act of giving the herbs back to the fire, letting them release their stories into the smoke.

If the evening is still, I’ll carve an apple, hollow out a small space for a candle, and set it by the window, a gentle light to honor the ones who came before and to remind myself that the line between worlds is softer than we think.

And always, there’s tea. I make this one every October because it feels like Halloween in a cup — warm, golden, and just sweet enough.

Harvest Moon Tea

2 teaspoons rooibos

1 teaspoon chamomile

½ teaspoon calendula petals

½ teaspoon marshmallow root (optional, for creamy body)

1 small piece of dried orange peel

½ teaspoon cinnamon chips or a broken stick

½ teaspoon vanilla bean (or a few drops of vanilla stirred in after steeping)

Honey or maple syrup, to taste

Combine the herbs in a teapot, pour over four cups of boiling water, cover, and let steep for 7–10 minutes. Strain, sweeten lightly, and sip while the candles flicker. The rooibos and chamomile bring a honey-vanilla softness, calendula gives a golden glow, and cinnamon warms it all, the kind of cup that feels like it could sweeten even the darkest night.

Samhain, or Halloween, if you prefer, isn’t just about ghosts and goblins. It’s about the earth’s rhythm, the garden’s rest, and the herbs that carry us from one season to the next. Light a candle, breathe in the rosemary and sage, sip something warm, and remember: every ending is only another beginning. The garden sleeps, but spring is already dreaming beneath the soil.