Opening the Window: Death Customs and Soul Beliefs in Irish Tradition

In Ireland, death has never been a hidden thing. It moves through the home, the community, and the land as something to be honoured, witnessed, and spoken of. Death is not treated as an abrupt severing, but as a threshold that involves the living and the dead in a shared passage. In rural Ireland, particularly, these thresholds have traditionally been marked through a series of household rituals, communal practices, and seasonal observances that bind the fate of the soul to the rhythms of the land and the community.

The time of year in which these customs are most vividly remembered is Samhain. Samhain is Ireland’s death festival, marking both the end of the old Celtic year and the beginning of the new one. It is a liminal time when the boundaries between the seen and unseen worlds are believed to grow thin, and when the dead are especially remembered and honoured. In older cosmological reckonings, Samhain was not a fixed date like modern Hallowe’en but a cross-quarter day determined by the movements of the sun and stars, much like the alignments of ancient megalithic monuments. This is why the subject of death and the soul’s journey naturally comes to the fore at this time of year.

Within this cosmological and cultural frame, death customs in Ireland developed as a continuum between household acts, communal vigils, lament traditions, seasonal rites, and mythic beliefs. They were not isolated rituals but part of an integrated worldview in which death belonged to both domestic space and cosmic order.

This article explores that continuum in depth. It follows the path from household practices at the moment of death, through the structure and symbolism of the wake, the role of keening women and male watchers, the pishogues and superstitions that surrounded death, and the messengers and omens that signalled its approach. It looks to offerings, the Month’s Mind, and the cosmology of the soul’s westward journey, situating these within the seasonal threshold of Samhain and the archetypal patterns that endure in Irish tradition.

Preparing the House at the Time of Death

When a person died in an Irish home, the first response was to attend to both the body and the household. The window of the room where the death occurred was opened as quickly as possible, allowing the soul to leave unhindered and begin its journey. This act was often accompanied by the stopping of the clock at the exact moment of death, fixing time and marking the threshold between the temporal and the eternal. These two gestures were simple but powerful acknowledgements of death as both a physical and spiritual event, embedded in the rhythm of daily life.

The body was washed and dressed by women, usually close family or trusted neighbours, reflecting the deep communal nature of death rites. Cleanliness and dignity were of central importance. The deceased would be dressed in their finest clothes, ready to receive visitors, and then laid out either on a large table in the main room of the house or in their own bed, with candles placed around the body or the room to provide light through the night and to keep vigil over the threshold. In some areas, the body was wrapped in a shroud tied with ribbons or decorated with herbs and flowers, while in other regions the body was laid out without a shroud. This variation reflected local custom and family tradition.

One of the most distinctive household rituals involved placing a plate of salt and a plate of soil, or sometimes bread, on the chest of the deceased, in the coffin with them, or beneath the body. The soil represented the body and the earthly house, while the salt represented the heavenly state of the soul. In some places, the bread replaced the soil, forming a triad of symbolic elements: body, soul, and sustenance. Designated individuals known as sin eaters would perform a short incantation over these plates and then consume their contents, symbolically taking on the sins of the deceased and clearing their path to heaven. Without this ritual, it was believed the ghost would remain in unrest, lingering around the family home and land. This practice, though fading, echoes pre-Christian beliefs about the relationship between the body, the soul, and the community’s role in ensuring a safe passage to the otherworld.

The use of salt on the chest or abdomen of the deceased has survived in some places, though its meaning has shifted. Today it is sometimes said to prevent swelling of the body, while its older symbolic and protective functions have faded from common memory. In folk belief, salt has long been associated with protection and with marking safe boundaries. It was used to form circles, to line thresholds, and to offer along the path of the dead to aid their journey and keep malign forces at bay.

Mirrors were covered in the room where the body lay. Reflective surfaces were believed to trap or confuse the soul if left uncovered. Water was not thrown out of the house after a death, as it might carry the departing soul with it. The door was often left ajar, allowing the soul to move freely and signalling to neighbours that a death had occurred. Offerings of food and drink were left out for the deceased, and a place set at the table.

Black ribbons were tied to the door of the house, and curtains were drawn as outward signs of mourning. In towns and villages, entire streets might display these signs, reflecting the collective nature of mourning in Irish communities. These gestures connected the household’s private grief to the surrounding community’s awareness and support.

Finally, the body was never left alone. From the moment of death until burial, someone remained with the deceased at all times. This was both an act of respect and a protective measure, as it was traditionally believed that if the body were left unattended, evil forces or the devil might claim it. It also allowed mourners to keep vigil, pray, and share stories, anchoring the transition between life and death within the continuous presence of community.

The Wake

The tradition of holding a wake is one of the oldest and most distinctive elements of Irish death customs. It reaches deep into the past, with clear parallels found in the Homeric world and beyond. In the Iliad, the dead are laid out in their homes and mourned over several days, accompanied by ritual lament, storytelling, and communal gathering. In Ireland, this practice evolved through centuries into a ritual that was both solemn and lively, blending pre-Christian cosmology with later Christian customs and the fabric of community life. The wake was never merely a vigil; it was a structured, symbolic, and communal act that acknowledged death as part of the living world.

The traditional Irish wake typically lasted for three days, a duration that reflects the sacred status of the number three in Irish myth, legend, folklore, and archaeology. Triple spirals carved into stone at sites such as Brú na Bóinne, triadic storytelling structures, the three realms of land, sea, and sky, and the threefold aspects of many Irish deities all testify to this deep cultural pattern. A three-day wake was therefore more than practical; it was cosmological, echoing the rhythms of the mythic world.

Merrymaking, storytelling, music, dance, and games were integral to the wake. Although the primary purpose was to mourn and honour the dead, laughter and shared stories were understood as vital parts of the grieving process. These practices have their roots in older, land-based traditions and were later frowned upon by the Church, which viewed such merriment as inappropriate in a religious context. Yet the people held on to their ways. Over time, an urban legend grew up around the three-day vigil: that in the past, drinkers using pewter tankards occasionally suffered lead poisoning, which could induce a catatonic state that mimicked death. Out of caution, it was said, the Irish held three-day wakes to make sure no one was mistakenly buried alive. This story still circulates today, sometimes with a wry smile, as if Father Jack himself had once awakened mid-wake on Craggy Island. Whether or not the tale is true, it reveals something of the Irish capacity to weave humour into even the most solemn rituals.

The number three also resonates through the wake in a numerological sense. Three multiplied by ten gives thirty, a period that in some traditions marks the soul’s journey through the earthly plane before fully departing, culminating in the Month’s Mind. The number ten itself can be seen as two times five, and five corresponds to the classical Irish elemental structure: air, fire, water, earth, and spirit. One can imagine two five-day passes, one masculine and one feminine, repeated three times, echoing the lunar cycle of roughly thirty days and the symbolic structuring found in megalithic motifs. This is not offered as dogma but as a reflective lens through which the Irish instinct for symbolic number can be glimpsed.

The structure of the wake reflected both hospitality and reverence. At its heart was the pipe ritual: a communal clay pipe was filled with herbs, corn silks or tobacco, and passed among those present. Each mourner took a puff near the body, a gesture that combined social solidarity with spiritual watchfulness. This smoke was believed to keep evil spirits at bay while also providing a moment of shared reflection. Food and drink were provided generously. The wake was a social event as well as a vigil, and mourners were expected to eat, drink, and speak well of the deceased. Dress was sombre and respectful, usually dark clothing, but there was no rigid uniform. Friends and neighbours attended whether or not they knew the deceased personally, offering their presence as a mark of community support. Close male friends and neighbours often arrived late at night to relieve the immediate family, allowing them to rest. Most guests departed by midnight, but the night watchers stayed until morning. In more recent generations, the rosary was recited twice during the night, once around midnight and again towards dawn. If the weather was good, the men would gather outside; otherwise, they congregated in the kitchen, the hearth of the home. Daily chores such as tending to the animals were taken over by friends and neighbours to ease the burden during this time.

Watching the body was a serious responsibility. It was believed that if the body were left unattended, the devil might claim it. Youths, often relatives, were enlisted to keep vigil overnight. They were given whiskey at the beginning of their watch and tea or beer with bread midway through the night. Storytelling was common, and tales of supernatural happenings were often told in these quiet hours. Scripture readings might also be shared. It was considered bad luck to look at the body without touching it; those who failed to do so were said to suffer a week of bad dreams. These customs created an atmosphere of physical and emotional intimacy with death that stands in sharp contrast to modern practices, where the dead are often whisked away and prepared elsewhere. In the Irish wake, the community confronted death directly, tending to the body, touching it, watching over it, and integrating its presence into the rhythms of the home.

Within this vigil, gendered roles were clearly defined but complementary. The bean chaointe, or keening woman, occupied a central place near the body. She led the lament, voicing the grief of the community through improvised and traditional verse, calling out the lineage, deeds, and soul of the deceased. Her keening opened the emotional space for mourning and anchored the ritual in ancestral tradition. Alongside her stood the fear faire, the male watcher or host. He oversaw the practicalities of hospitality, ensured that guests were welcomed and cared for, maintained the vigil’s structure, and held the threshold between the household and the wider community. These roles were equally significant. One carried the voice of mourning, the other the guardianship of the space. Together they shaped the wake as both a domestic rite and a communal threshold.

The Keening Lament

Keening, or caoineadh, was the ritual lament that accompanied the dead on their journey from the household to the grave. It was not simply an expression of personal grief but a formal, communal act with deep spiritual significance. The keening woman, or bean chaointe, took her place near the body, usually at the head, and began her lament. Her voice rose and fell in rhythmic waves, weaving improvised and traditional verses that named the deceased, praised their lineage and deeds, and called on ancestors and the divine to receive their soul. The lament served a dual purpose: it gave voice to the collective sorrow of the community, and it acted as a psychopompic bridge, guiding the soul across the threshold between the worlds.

Keening took place at key moments during the wake and funeral rites. It often began when the body was first laid out, rose again as visitors arrived, and reached its most intense expression when the coffin was lifted from the house for the final journey. It was raw, poetic, and deliberately unrestrained, a structured outpouring that allowed communal grief to flow without shame. The bean chaointe occupied a sanctioned role within society, simultaneously mourner, poet, and spiritual guide.

In addition to the keening woman, some wakes and funerals included the presence of the seisig bháis, dirge singers who performed formal death songs. One such verse, preserved in the Carmina Gaelica, offers a glimpse into this tradition:

"You’re going home this night to your home of winter,

you’re going home to your home of autumn, of spring and of summer,

you’re going home this night to your perpetual home,

to your eternal bed, to your eternal slumber."

This dirge speaks to the soul’s passage through the seasons and into the eternal cycle, mirroring the Irish cosmological understanding of life and death as part of a continuous rhythm rather than a sudden severance.

One of the most famous Irish laments is the Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire, composed in 1773 by Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill upon the death of her husband Art Ó Laoghaire. It is both a love poem and a keening lament, blending personal anguish with ritual structure. Below is an excerpt in Irish followed by an English translation:

"Mise mo ghlún ar do ghlún,

ag caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire,

mo ghrá go daingean thú,

a laoch mo chroí is mo mhian."

(I with my knee on your knee,

lamenting Art O’Laoghaire,

my love for you is steadfast,

hero of my heart and my desire).

This lament was traditionally performed at the wake and funeral, embodying the full force of grief, love, and ancestral invocation. The keening was not a performance in the modern sense but a vital part of death ritual, giving form to what could not be spoken plainly. It allowed the community to engage with death through sound, language, and shared emotion, and it marked the soul’s departure with both human sorrow and ritual precision.

Superstitions and Pishogues

Alongside the formal customs and rituals, Irish households observed a wide range of superstitions and pishogues at the time of death. These practices were woven into everyday life and reflected a deep sensitivity to the thresholds between the living and the dead. They acted as both protective measures and gestures of respect, ensuring that the soul could pass freely and that no ill fortune would linger in the home.

Sweeping the floor or throwing out water from the house after a death was strictly avoided. It was believed that sweeping might drive the soul away before it had completed its departure, and that water poured out could carry the spirit with it. Household water was left standing, and chores that involved sweeping were postponed until after the funeral to avoid disturbing the unseen.

Mirrors (and reflective surfaces) were covered to prevent the soul from becoming trapped or confused in its own reflection. Clocks were stopped at the exact time of death, fixing the moment in memory and acknowledging the crossing from one state to another. These gestures marked a pause in ordinary time and made visible the invisible presence of death in the home.

Touching the body was considered essential. Anyone who viewed the body was expected to touch it, even if only lightly, as a sign of respect and acknowledgment. Failure to do so was believed to bring a week of bad dreams. This simple act also reinforced the physical reality of death, grounding the event in touch and presence rather than distancing it.

It was considered bad luck to pass between the corpse and the wall. This narrow space was thought to belong to the soul’s movement, and to cross through it was to interfere with forces beyond the living. People moved carefully around the body, respecting its symbolic orientation within the room. Chairs that the coffin rested upon at the wake were kicked over once the coffin was removed, as it was believed to not do so would bind the spirit of the deceased person to the earthly plains.

More broadly, Irish folk tradition is rich with pishogues surrounding death. These include omens such as the banshee’s cry, the sound of the death coach, or the sudden appearance of certain birds, especially ravens, near the home. Household practices might involve tying black ribbons to the door to signal mourning, drawing curtains, and avoiding unnecessary noise. These customs were not random superstitions but part of a coherent worldview in which death was present, active, and deserving of careful navigation. Through these gestures, the living participated in the delicate work of guiding the soul onwards and protecting the household from misfortune.

Death Messengers and Omens

Irish tradition holds a rich tapestry of death messengers and omens, figures that appear or are heard before a death occurs, acting as heralds of the soul’s departure. These beings belong to the threshold between worlds and occupy an archetypal role as psychopomps, mediators who announce, accompany, or guard the passage of the dead. Their presence reflects the Irish understanding that death is rarely silent; it is signalled, forewarned, and woven into the fabric of the natural and supernatural landscape.

Foremost among these messengers is the banshee, or bean sí, the fairy woman. She is not to be confused with the human keening woman at the wake. The banshee is a supernatural being attached to certain families, particularly those of ancient lineage, and her wail foretells an impending death. Her cry is said to be piercing, mournful, and unmistakable, sometimes heard in the night before the news of a death arrives. In some accounts, she appears as an old woman with long hair, combing it by a river or on a stone. In others, she is unseen, her presence announced only by her lament. Her role is to herald death, not to cause it.

Closely associated with the banshee is the cóiste bodhar, the Death Coach. According to folklore, the coach is summoned by the banshee’s wail and arrives to collect the soul of the dying. It is driven by the dullahan, also known as Gan Ceann, the headless horseman. The dullahan carries his head under his arm, his face twisted in a ghastly grin. The coach is often described as black, sometimes carrying a coffin, and drawn by headless horses. Its arrival is accompanied by the sound of galloping hooves and rattling wheels. W. B. Yeats records that if a person opens their door when the coach stops outside, a basin of blood will be thrown into their face. No lock or gate can keep the coach out; it passes through all barriers. The only thing that can repel the dullahan is gold, which is said to make him turn away.

Other omens of death include the sound of a whip crack in the night, signalling the approach of the death coach, and the sudden appearance of ravens near the home. Ravens, associated with both battlefields and the otherworld in Irish tradition, often act as messengers between realms.

Another significant death omen is the fetch, a supernatural double of a living person. Seeing one’s fetch, especially at night, was traditionally believed to foretell that person’s death. The term may derive from the Irish fáith, meaning seer or prophet. References to fetches appear from the sixteenth century onwards and became more widespread in the nineteenth century through literature. Sir Walter Scott discusses them in his 1830 work on demonology and witchcraft, and they feature prominently in the Gothic story “The Fetches” by John and Michael Banim. The fetch occupies a similar role to the doppelgänger in Germanic folklore, standing at the edge of visibility as a harbinger of mortality.

These figures and signs reveal a worldview in which death is surrounded by heralds and intermediaries. The banshee, the dullahan, the coach, the fetch, and the birds are all part of an archetypal pattern of psychopompic presence. They stand at the threshold, not as enemies but as watchers and guides, reminding the living that death approaches as part of the natural and supernatural order. Their cries, appearances, and visitations weave the invisible into daily life, giving death a face and a voice before it arrives.

Offerings and Household Rituals for the Dead

In Ireland, the dead were not only mourned at the time of death but were also remembered and welcomed back into the household at specific times of the year. Chief among these occasions was All Souls’ Night, on November 1st. This night was understood as a liminal moment when the souls of the departed returned to visit their families, moving freely between the otherworld and the home. The household prepared carefully to receive them, maintaining a sense of continuity between generations and honouring the unseen as part of family life.

The hearth, the heart of the home, was tidied and swept clean in readiness. Candles were placed in the windows, one for each deceased family member, their flames acting as beacons to guide the souls home through the darkness. Chairs were set around the fire, and a glass of water placed nearby. The front door was left on the latch (unlocked) so that the souls could enter without obstruction. These gestures transformed the house into a place of welcome, mirroring the hospitality extended to living guests.

On this night, the family often went to bed early, leaving the hearth quiet and undisturbed to allow the spirits to visit. In some regions, food was set aside on the table for the souls to share, while in others the emphasis was on creating a warm, inviting atmosphere rather than leaving material offerings. These practices varied from region to region, but the underlying theme was one of remembrance, honour, and connection. The dead were not viewed as distant or frightening but as kin returning for a brief time to the place they once inhabited.

Many of these customs continued well into the twentieth century, and in some rural areas they survive today in adapted forms. Lighting candles for the dead, keeping the hearth clear, and leaving doors unbolted on All Souls’ Night are gestures that preserve an unbroken thread of relationship between the living and the departed. They express a worldview in which the boundary between life and death is porous, and where hospitality extends beyond the visible world.

Month’s Mind and Thirty Days

One month after a death, it was customary in Ireland to hold a Month’s Mind, a Mass and communal gathering offered for the soul of the departed. This marked the end of a significant period of mourning and transition. Friends, family, and neighbours would gather once more, this time not in the immediate rawness of grief but in a spirit of prayerful remembrance and communal support. It was an occasion to honour the deceased, to offer Mass for their soul, and to reaffirm the bonds between the living who remained.

Underlying this practice was the traditional belief that the soul lingered near the earthly plane for thirty days before moving fully on. This idea connects deeply with older Irish cosmological patterns. Earlier in this article, the sacred number three was explored in relation to the three-day wake. Thirty days represents three multiplied by ten, forming a numerological structure that mirrors both cosmic rhythms and the soul’s imagined journey. The number ten itself can be seen as two times five, and here five takes on layered significance.

In the Irish language, the number five is cúig. Beyond its numerical meaning, cúig evokes the fifth province of Ireland, sometimes called Cúigeadh an Chroí – the province of the heart. In pre-modern cosmological thought, Ireland was conceived not only as four geographic provinces – Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connacht – but also as containing a fifth symbolic province at the centre. This fifth province represents the place of integration, the heart of the land and the meeting point between the visible world and the otherworld. It is both a real and a metaphysical space, associated with balance, sovereignty, and the unseen realms.

When considered in this light, the thirty-day period after death can be read symbolically as three cycles of ten, each containing within it the number five – the five elements and the fifth province, the heart-realm.

The soul’s journey during this time is thus mirrored in the landscape and language: it moves through elemental passages and returns, ultimately, to the heartland that bridges worlds. This is not presented as doctrine but as a poetic and cosmological reflection on how number, language, and land intertwine in Irish tradition.

The Month’s Mind Mass sits at the intersection of these older beliefs and Christian liturgical practice. It provided families and communities with a formal moment to close the initial mourning period, to pray for the soul’s peaceful journey, and to gather once again in shared remembrance. In the layered symbolism of three, ten, and cúig, we glimpse how Irish tradition holds death not as a single moment but as a structured passage, shaped by number, myth, and place.

Cosmology and the Soul’s Journey

Beneath the household customs, the wake rituals, and the pishogues lies a deeper cosmological framework that shapes Irish understandings of death and the soul’s journey. Long before Christian theology was established in Ireland, the landscape itself was seen as a living map of the otherworld. Mountains, rocks, islands, and rivers were not merely physical features but thresholds through which souls passed and spirits dwelled. This sense of a storied landscape persisted well into Christian times, intertwining with new beliefs and creating a layered, enduring vision of what happens after death.

At the heart of this cosmology stands Donn, often described as Ireland’s first ancestor and the lord of the dead. In early literature and folklore, Donn is said to dwell in Tech Duinn, the House of Donn, which lies to the west, beyond the mortal world. When people died, it was believed that their souls travelled westward over the sea to gather at Tech Duinn before continuing to their final resting place. This westward movement reflects both the setting of the sun and the geographical orientation of Ireland, where the Atlantic marks the edge of the known world.

One of the places most strongly associated with Tech Duinn is Bull Rock, off the coast of the Beara Peninsula, the north shore of Bantry Bay, in West Cork. Note that this very same peninsula, the Beara, is also home to the Cailleach Bhéarra. Rising abruptly from the sea, pierced by a great natural tunnel, Bull Rock has long held a place in local lore as the gathering point of souls. Fishermen and coastal communities have passed down stories of the rock as a kind of liminal doorway, where the living world meets the otherworld. It is said that the souls of the dead flock to this western rock before journeying onward. The rock’s dramatic shape and position at the ocean’s edge lend themselves to such cosmological imagination, embodying the idea that the soul must travel across water to reach the ancestral realm.

With the coming of Christianity, these older beliefs did not disappear; they were woven into new theological frameworks. The journey to Tech Duinn became integrated with the ideas of heaven, hell, and purgatory. In some accounts, Tech Duinn was reimagined as a kind of holding place, akin to purgatory, where souls gathered before their final judgement. Donn himself was sometimes reframed as a mortal ancestor rather than a god, though his role as host of the dead persisted. The westward journey remained central, even as the cosmological language changed. To travel west after death was to follow both the sun and the ancestors, moving towards the realm of spirit (and light).

Irish otherworld geography is rich and varied. Alongside Tech Duinn, stories speak of Tír na nÓg, the Land of Youth, reached by travelling west over the sea, and of islands where the dead live in abundance, health, and eternal summer. There are accounts of mounds, caves, lakes, and rivers acting as entrances to the otherworld, often associated with deities or ancestral hosts. These geographies are not abstract metaphors but living parts of the land, encountered in daily life and ritual. They locate the soul’s journey in a specific direction and within specific landscapes, making the passage after death something both imagined and grounded.

The cosmology of death in Ireland, then, is one of movement, direction, and gathering. The soul sets out westward, towards Donn’s house, joining those who came before. Christian teachings on heaven and purgatory layered themselves over this older vision rather than erasing it. In this way, Irish death customs carry a double inheritance: the ancestral pathways traced in the land and sea, and the theological pathways introduced through the Church. Together, they form a uniquely Irish map of the soul’s journey, one in which the setting sun, the western sea, and the rocky threshold of Bull Rock all play their part in guiding the departed home.

Samhain and Hallowe’en

Samhain is the great Death Festival of the Irish year, marking both the end of the old Celtic year and the beginning of the new. It is a threshold time, a liminal season when the boundaries between the visible world and the otherworld are understood to thin. The dead are honoured, the ancestors remembered, and the living prepare to enter the dark, inward-turning months of winter. In the traditional Irish cosmological calendar, Samhain holds the same weight as Imbolc, Bealtaine, and Lúnasa, forming one of the four great seasonal hinge-points of the year.

It is important to distinguish between Samhain and modern Hallowe’en. Hallowe’en, fixed on 31 October, is a Christian feast of All Hallows’ Eve that over time absorbed and distorted many older Samhain customs. While Hallowe’en has spread worldwide as a festival of costumes, carved pumpkins, and commercial celebration, Samhain remains rooted in older rhythms. It is not fixed to a single calendar date but is determined by astronomical timing. Samhain falls on a cross-quarter day, the midpoint between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. In 2025, this occurs on 7 November. Those who work with the Celtic Wheel of the Year mark their celebrations by these celestial rhythms, just as our ancesters did, rather than the modern fixed date.

This astronomical grounding is not arbitrary. Across Ireland, megalithic monuments and sacred sites are aligned with specific solar and lunar positions, marking seasonal thresholds through light and shadow. Sites such as Drombeg, Brú na Bóinne, Loughcrew, and others demonstrate a sophisticated awareness of celestial cycles. Samhain sits within this cosmological framework as a moment when the sun’s descent into the dark half of the year is ritually and spatially acknowledged.

The timing of this article reflects that cosmological awareness. As Samhain approaches, attention turns to those who have gone before us, to the household and communal rituals that accompany death, and to the cosmological maps that shape Irish understandings of the soul’s journey. This is the season when the land itself seems to turn its gaze inward, when the western seas call, and when the old customs that weave the living and the dead together come most vividly to life.

Archetypal and Elemental Reflection

Running beneath the customs, cosmology, and seasonal rituals is a set of enduring archetypal patterns that shape how death is understood and approached in Irish tradition. Death is not conceived as an isolated personal event but as a communal threshold through which both soul and community must pass. Figures such as the bean chaointe, the fear faire, the banshee, and Donn can all be seen as psychopompic presences.

Each plays a distinct role in mediating between the worlds: the keening woman gives voice to communal grief and guides the soul through lament; the male watcher holds vigil and safeguards the threshold of the household; the banshee announces death’s approach; and Donn receives the soul in the west. Together, they form a constellation of guardians and heralds that accompany the journey from life to death.

Elementally, the season from Samhain to the Winter Solstice belongs to the Earth and to the elder archetype. In Irish cosmology, this is the time of the Cailleach, of descent, stillness, and the turning inward of the land. The earth element holds, receives, and transforms. Death is folded into this seasonal rhythm, not hidden away. Just as the land draws energy down into its roots, so too do communities turn inward, remembering their dead, lighting candles, offering food, keeping the hearth lighting, keeping vigil, and tending to the quiet work of mourning and continuity.

In this archetypal and elemental frame, death is not taboo. It is part of the cycle of being, a threshold that involves both the living and the dead. Through household ritual, communal gathering, lament, and cosmological orientation, Irish tradition acknowledges death openly and integrates it into the rhythms of the year. The customs that surround death are not peripheral but central, shaping how communities remember, navigate loss, and maintain relationship with those who have gone before. In this way, the psychopomp figures, the earth element, and the elder archetype all converge during the Samhain–Winter Solstice season, holding space for both departure and remembrance.

Closing

As the year turns towards its darkest months, the hearth once again becomes the centre of gravity. Candles are lit in windows, hearths are swept, and doors are left on the latch. These gestures, small and steady, are acts of continuity that connect the living to the dead and the present to the ancestral past. Irish death customs are not relics stored away in archives; they are living threads, still felt in households and communities, especially in rural areas where the land’s seasonal rhythms remain close at hand.

There is a wry humour in how death is held in Irish culture. Dr Marie Cassidy, former State Pathologist, once remarked, “The Irish are obsessed with death.” Few who grew up in Ireland would disagree. Funerals are more often larger community events than weddings, and many households listen faithfully to the death notices (and weather) on the radio before anything else. People gather not only to mourn but to bear witness, to honour, and to share in the inevitable passage that touches every family and every community. This familiarity does not diminish death’s gravity; rather, it embeds it in daily life, making it something to be spoken of, laughed about, and faced together.

For those drawn to explore these customs in their own way, Samhain offers a natural time to engage. Some may wish to light candles for their dead, prepare their hearths on All Souls’ Night, or even explore keening as a way of giving voice to remembrance. This season invites participation as much as reflection, carrying forward traditions that are both old and adaptable.

Below is a final lament, presented in Irish and English translation. It is offered not as a performance piece but as a simple evocation of that thin moment when the living call across the threshold to the departed. It stands alone, as laments so often do, bridging silence and speech.

"A stór mo chroí, tá do leaba réidh,

faoin gcré bhog, i bhfoscadh na spéire,

éist liom anois, thar na gleannta fuara,

glaoim ort go séimh ón taobh seo den saol."

Treasure of my heart, your bed is made,

beneath the soft earth, sheltered by the sky,

hear me now, across the cold valleys,

I call to you gently from this side of life.

© 2025 Niamh Criostail and Heartlands Publishing. All rights reserved.

For those who feel called to linger by the hearth a while longer, the seasonal newsletter is where the deeper stories are shared with community. Here, Irish cosmology, the Celtic Wheel of the Year, archetypal psychology, elemental philosophy, mythology and folklore, land-based practice, traditional skill sets, and much much more are woven together – an exclusive space where these threads are carried and tended through the turning seasons.

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