However, this act of taking does not imply malignancy, for in many cultures death is personified as a benign being, whose sole purpose is to sever the threads of life. No matter how many sacrifices are given, it will not be placated, but it will take. When the reaper comes, there is very little one can do to prevent the scythe from falling, death cannot be appeased, there are no oblations that can cause it to refrain from acting in accordance with its nature. The personification of death embodies the belief that death truly is beyond our control, and that some force in an invisible realm fastidiously observes the passage of human life and is responsible for heralding its end. As a consequence, the personification of death becomes a socio-cultural channel that expresses the invisible, supernatural world into identifiable human patterns. To personify an archetype, deity, etc., may be defined as giving an abstract concept the characteristics of being human, or somewhat related to humanity. Since the dawn of man, humans have adorned the energy and mystery of death with a persona. The origins and evolution of death personified are perhaps as old as mankind itself. Continuously, through the mists of time, this enigmatic figure has entrenched itself into the popular imagination and into the nightmares of society. The Gothic era lavished in its symbology, to an extent that balanced on the border of worship. Known by a myriad of names, Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death, Azrael, the figure of death personified is as familiar to today's society as it was centuries past.įor countless generations, artists have pondered over it, poets written to it, composers etched out music of melancholy and gloom to it. ![]() Standing firm, its midnight cloak billowing in the late autumn breeze with a sharp malevolent looking scythe, is a figure that is known to probably the majority of people in the Western World. This night holds a silence, the anticipation of a sigh, perhaps of resignation or of relief the night is silent, still, and the veils thin.Īnd so, the wheel turns, from the reaping of harvest to the reaping of souls, for all in the end is harvest, and the reaper always calls. In certain windows candle lights flicker, and to those who walk the subtle paths, prayers and chants, spells, and blessings are offered in memory of those who have shed their mortal coils. In Wales, pumpkins are exchanged for carved turnips, called "Bwgan Rwdan," or, "turnip ghouls." Children cackle beneath the guise of Witches and take to scares in the form of ghosts, innocent play that hides a profundity that belies the plastic Halloween tat that greedily grace our supermarket shelves. ![]() Calan Gaeaf, the feast that heralds the Calends of Winter- Samhain-reminds us of the frailty of life, the inevitability of death and its necessity.Įerie eyes glare out from the orange skin of Pumpkins that line the streets, their deathly grimace a reminder of the perils of the season to come. The blessed Earth turns her northern face from the sun and the breath of death sighs from the edge of forever. The golden colours of autumn give way to the impending grey of winter, and as the last leaf falls from the tree of life, we descend into darkness and decay. The wheel of the year turns on its perpetual, ceaseless axis, taking us from one season to another.
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