Every year, when the light tilts and the air turns silver with mist, I feel the world holding its breath. Samhain has always been my truest new year — not the one marked by calendars or fireworks, but the quiet turn when life folds inward, when the leaves become prayers, and when the unseen world hums just beneath the skin of things. 2025 Samhain Portal seems oddly peculiar as Neptune Retrograde, reentered Pisces – FOR THE LAST TIME in our lifetimes. This brings the last jolt of magical power to our realm. So, whether we are ready or not (probably not) here it comes! Will this be 3I/Atlas as an alien mothership or just some ghosts wondering around us… well… we’ll see!

The 2025 Samhain Portal Is Open: 5 Simple Spells to Transform Your Spirit

This Samhain of 2025 feels different. The portal feels wider, the call deeper. Perhaps it’s because we’ve all been walking through our own thresholds this year — shedding, remembering, re-rooting. I can sense the ancestors pressing closer, the trees whispering louder, the fire asking for our truth.

Samhain is not only a time to honor death — it’s a time to court renewal. And so, I’ve gathered five simple spells — pieces of my own practice — that help me navigate this portal with intention and tenderness. None require elaborate tools or secret words, only presence, trust, and a willingness to listen to the Earth as she turns her face toward the dark.

1. The Fire of Release

I begin, as I always do, with letting go.

In the days before Samhain, I collect the fallen leaves that gather on my doorstep. I choose a few that speak to me — perhaps one golden, one dry and curled, one still clinging to a hint of green. I hold each leaf and whisper something I am ready to release: a fear, a habit, a wound I’ve nursed too long.

When dusk arrives on Samhain night, I light a candle and place the leaves in a small fire-safe bowl. I breathe deeply, letting the smoke carry my intentions upward.

“As the old year dies,

so too may what no longer serves me fade into ash.

I release, I renew, I begin again.”

As the leaves curl and burn, I imagine my burdens dissolving into the air. The smell of smoke feels sacred — not destructive, but cleansing. The fire is an ancient witness, a mirror of transformation.

When the flames go out, I bury the ashes near the roots of a tree, offering them back to the soil. The Earth takes what we no longer need and turns it into nourishment. That is her oldest magic.

2. The Breath of the Ancestors

The veil thins, they say, and I feel it in the spaces between breaths. Samhain is a time of communion — not only with our human ancestors but with all who came before us: the rivers, the stones, the first spark of life that dreamed us into being.

I create a small altar on my kitchen table. A black candle. A cup of water. A bowl of apples — fruit of the harvest, symbol of life’s sweetness. I place a photo of my grandmother, her smile both fierce and tender, beside a sprig of rosemary for remembrance.

When I light the candle, I speak softly:

“To those whose blood and dreams made mine,

I remember you.

Sit with me awhile.

Teach me what endures.”

Then I simply breathe. I listen. Sometimes I sense her laughter, faint but familiar. Sometimes the candle flickers and I feel a presence at my shoulder — not frightening, but kind.

Afterwards, I pour the water into the earth outside and share the apple with the soil — a simple offering of gratitude. Connection, I’ve learned, doesn’t need ceremony. It only needs sincerity.

3. The Circle of Protection

As the portal opens, the world grows softer at the edges — and while that allows for beauty and communion, it also invites stray energies. Protection, to me, is not about fear. It’s about honoring my boundaries, keeping my light steady so it doesn’t waver in every passing wind.

On the morning of Samhain, before the day stirs too much, I make a circle of salt by my front door. Into it, I sprinkle crushed rosemary, black pepper, and a few drops of olive oil — gifts from the kitchen witch within me. I stir them clockwise and whisper:

“Within this threshold, peace abides.

No shadow may linger that does not bear wisdom.

Only love may cross.”

Then I take a deep breath, and as I exhale, I imagine my entire home wrapped in soft golden light — a living lantern glowing against the thinning veil.

This spell always makes me feel rooted, secure, and clear-sighted. It reminds me that protection is an act of self-love, not separation.

4. The Bath of Renewal

When dusk deepens into night, I draw a warm bath. Into the water, I pour a handful of sea salt, a few drops of cinnamon oil, and a spoonful of honey — salt to cleanse, spice to awaken, sweetness to remind me that joy belongs even in shadow.

I light a single candle and dim the lights. As I slip into the water, I feel the day dissolve. My breath becomes a rhythm: inhale, release, listen.

“Through water, I remember my fluid nature.

Through warmth, I remember my spark.

Through stillness, I am reborn.”

I stay until I feel a subtle shift — that quiet click of alignment when my mind stops circling and my body softens into trust. When I drain the water, I whisper thanks. Everything I’ve shed will return to the great tide of life, purified, renewed.

Afterwards, I wrap myself in a soft blanket and sip something warm — perhaps apple cider or chamomile tea. The magic of this spell lies not in the ingredients but in the pause it creates. Samhain reminds us that rest is holy.

5. The Mirror Between Worlds

Every Samhain, I perform a simple act of divination. It’s not about predicting the future; it’s about listening to the deeper current of now.

I sit before a dark mirror — or sometimes just a bowl of water reflecting candlelight. I gaze softly into its surface, letting my eyes unfocus until the image blurs. Then I ask:

“What must I carry forward into the new year?

What must I lay to rest?”

Sometimes images appear — a feather, a flame, a doorway. Other times it’s only a feeling, a word, or a sudden clarity that lands like a stone in the heart. Whatever comes, I write it down in my journal, even if it doesn’t make sense yet.

Later, when the wheel turns again and I reread these notes, I often see the thread — how the visions guided me quietly all along.

This spell is a reminder that the answers we seek rarely come from outside. They rise from the still water within us when we dare to be still enough to look.

Closing the Circle

When the night of Samhain wanes and the first frost glimmers on the window, I gather the remnants of my rituals — candle stubs, ashes, petals, salt. I wrap them in a small cloth and bury them near the roots of an old oak. I whisper my final words:

“The circle closes, but the work continues.

Death is only the doorway to becoming.”

Then I stand for a moment and listen to the wind moving through the branches. It sounds like breathing. It sounds like belonging.

Samhain is not just a festival of the dead; it’s a hymn to life — to the cycles that shape us, to the endings that birth new beginnings. Every time we release what’s outlived its purpose, we make space for the next dream to root. Every time we honor what has passed, we honor what endures.

This year, as the Samhain portal opens, I invite you to step through it with courage. Light your fire. Listen to your ancestors. Let the Earth teach you how to shed and bloom.

The dark half of the year isn’t something to fear — it’s a season of gestation. Beneath the soil, everything that died is already becoming. And so are you.

on the day after…

I have learned that the simplest spells — a whispered intention, a candle lit with reverence, a handful of herbs — can transform the entire landscape of the heart. Magic isn’t something we summon; it’s something we remember.

Samhain 2025 calls us back to that remembering — to the pulse beneath the pulse, to the sacred exchange between light and shadow, between what ends and what begins.

May your portal open gently. May your shadows become teachers.

And may you walk through this new year rooted, radiant, and free.