The Pattern Beneath It All

Every year, as October folds into November, something ancient begins to stir. The air feels different, heavier, quieter, sacred. The light turns softer, shadows longer. And somewhere beneath all the noise of modern life, I swear you can still feel it: the veil between worlds thinning.

Samhain. All Hallows’ Eve. All Saints’ Day. All Souls’ Day. Día de los Muertos. Five names for the same moment, the world collectively remembering what connects us beyond time, faith, or body.

It’s not a coincidence that these sacred days all converge. Long before the Roman calendar or the concept of “October” or “November,” people already knew this was a threshold. They didn’t need dates to tell them when to gather, grieve, or celebrate, they felt it in the rhythm of the earth. When the sun began setting earlier and the fields grew still, they sensed the world’s exhale. And in that stillness, they knew: the veil was thin.

I’ve always been drawn to that feeling, the way the world hums right before transformation. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by storms.

Only recently did I begin to understand what that might mean, the quiet poetry of being born during a hurricane. I used to think it was just an interesting detail, something to mention in passing. But the more I reflect, the more I see it as symbolic, that maybe my soul chose to arrive through chaos, to understand the language of rebuilding.

As a child, my mom and I would sit on our front porch during summer thunderstorms, barefoot and transfixed, listening to the thunder roll across the sky like a heartbeat. I wasn’t afraid, I was in awe. I remember the smell of rain on pavement, the flicker of lightning across treetops, the way the world would go completely silent for a split second right before the sky cracked open again.

And although my body has never been a huge fan of the cold, I’ve always loved the moment after a blizzard passes. Growing up in New England, I’m no stranger to them, the kind that shut down towns and turn the world into a soft white hush. There’s a unique kindness in the air after a blizzard, when neighbors emerge with shovels and snowblowers, helping one another dig out, laughing through red cheeks and frozen breath. The snow muffles everything, the traffic, the noise, even thought itself, until the world feels reborn in stillness. It’s a different kind of power than thunder or wind. It’s gentler, quieter, but no less commanding.

Later, as an adult, I was living in western Massachusetts when the tornadoes hit. I can still feel it, that pressure drop, my ears popping, the sound outside turning from wind to something alive, like a freight train roaring by. I went down to the basement, prayed with every fiber of my being, and twenty seconds later when it passed, I stepped outside, stunned by how fast it had come and gone. There was destruction, yes, but also this eerie, impossible calm. That same calm that always seems to follow the chaos.

I think I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since, not the destruction, but the stillness that follows. The eye of the storm. The moment when everything around you is swirling, yet something inside you is unmoving, steady, centered.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but smile this week, when another hurricane decided to make its quiet entrance just as the veil between worlds was at its thinnest. Hurricane Melissa moved through on the very same days we honored Samhain, All Hallows’ Eve, and All Saints’ Day, an unplanned yet strangely perfect alignment. The timing wasn’t lost on me.

As if life itself was giving me a mirror to look into: storms on both ends of the spiral, years apart, both marking moments of transition between worlds. Birth, death, remembrance, all carried in the same wind.

It made me wonder if maybe this is the pattern that’s been there all along, the same rhythm the ancients felt when they gathered around firelight during Samhain, sensing change in the air without needing a clock or a calendar. Maybe my connection to storms isn’t coincidence at all. Maybe I was born to remember the language of the spiral, to understand that even in the wildest weather, there’s wisdom, and at the center, always calm. Another spiral. Another reminder that chaos and calm are siblings, not opposites.

When you step into the eye, the world stops spinning long enough for you to see clearly. There’s peace there. Perspective. A knowing that both the storm and the stillness are part of the same truth.

And isn’t that what this whole sacred sequence, Samhain, All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day, and Día de los Muertos, is trying to show us? That endings and beginnings aren’t separate. That the living and the dead, the light and the shadow, the storm and the calm, they’re all woven together in one eternal cycle. The spiral doesn’t end; it only transforms.

When I look back now, I can see the pattern in everything, the way nature reflects the unseen. The way humans, from different lands and beliefs, somehow chose the same moment in the year to honor the same feeling. They didn’t need religion or rules to tell them when the veil was thin, they could feel it in the air, the same way I’ve always felt the electricity of a storm.

Maybe that’s the real truth of this season: we don’t need proof. We just need presence. We need to pause long enough to feel the hum beneath it all, the quiet invitation from the earth itself saying:
“Remember what is sacred. Remember what endures. Remember that you belong to something larger.”

So tonight, as the winds settle and the candles burn low, I’ll be giving thanks for the storms, the ones that shook me, the ones that shaped me, and the ones that taught me to find calm in their center.

Because every spiral, whether it’s a hurricane, a season, or a soul’s journey, always brings us back to the eye. The place of stillness. The place where remembrance and peace meet.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what the ancients were feeling too.

With gratitude and calm from the center of the storm,
Kelley