The Wheel of the Year: A Journey Through the Eight Solar Sabbats
Once upon the turning of the world, before clocks ticked and calendars divided, the people listened to the land. They watched the stars, whispered with trees, and marked the year not by numbers, but by stories. These stories became the Solar Sabbats—eight sacred moments in the Earth’s turning, each one a threshold between light and dark, growth and decay, enchantment and return.
Witches today still walk that path, round and round the Wheel of the Year, where every Sabbat is not just a festival, but a doorway. Behind each lies lore—of gods and goddesses, of fae and field spirits, of firelight and feasting.
Let us walk that spiral, step by step, sabbat by sabbat, into a world where the veil thins and the magic lives.
Samhain (October 31 – November 1)
The Descent into the Otherworld
In the smoky veil of Samhain, the gates of the Otherworld creak open. The last harvest is drawn in. The fields lie fallow. The spirits of the dead return to walk beside the living.
The Celtic fair folk are said to ride in procession on this night, led by the Sluagh, or the wild hunt. Doors were left ajar, offerings of apples and milk laid out for the ancestors or wandering spirits. To offend them was to risk sickness—or worse.
This sabbat is not one of fear, but of reverence. The Crone Goddess, veiled in mist, welcomes the dying year. As witches, we set a silent place at our table, not out of superstition, but to honor the truth: we are never alone.
Yule (Winter Solstice, ~December 21)
The Rebirth of the Sun Child
In the deep hush of winter, when the world is swaddled in snow and night, Yule arrives as a glimmering spark. Fires are lit on the longest night to beckon the Sun back into the sky.
Old folk tales spoke of elves and spirits who dwelled beneath the hills, only rising on Yule night to leave trinkets or tricks. The Norse believed in the Wild Hunt riding overhead—led by Odin, or sometimes a spectral Goddess in white.
Modern witches gather greens and burn the Yule log, inscribed with wishes. The Sun God is reborn from the womb of the Dark Goddess, and even in sorrow, we dare to hope. It is a night for storytelling, for spells whispered under evergreen boughs, and for watching stars blaze over snow.
Imbolc (February 1–2)
The Hearth Awakens
Imbolc is the hush before the thaw. The lambing season begins, snowdrops push their faces through the frost, and the flame of the hearth burns bright. This is the sabbat of Brigid, she of the sacred well and poetic fire.
In Irish folklore, the Cailleach, the winter hag, gathers wood on Imbolc morning. If the weather is fair, she gathers much, prolonging winter. But if it storms, she sleeps in, and spring will come sooner.
Witches light white candles, sweep their altars, and ask Brigid to bless their homes and words. A Brigid’s cross woven from straw may be hung on doors, a folk talisman of protection. This is a sabbat of promise and purification—of kindling what sleeps.
Ostara (Spring Equinox, ~March 21)
Where Light Meets Dark in the Garden
On Ostara, the day and night stand as equals. The balance tips toward the light, and the earth exhales her first fragrant breath.
In the lands of the Saxons, the goddess Eostre was honored with hares and painted eggs—symbols of new life and fertility. Some say her companions were faeries who turned snowdrops into bluebells with a single kiss of dew.
Witches bless seeds and scribe intentions into the soil. Gardens become temples. Eggs are dyed with herbs, and sun water is sprinkled in doorways. It is a time for divination and dreaming, for asking what you would plant in your spirit.
Beltane (May 1)
The Fire Between Earth and Sky
Now the Maypole rises, wrapped in red and white. Beltane is the great wedding of land and sky, when lovers leap flames and the fae dance in the groves.
In Scottish tradition, cattle were driven between twin fires to purify them. People decorated their doors with hawthorn and danced all night under blooming trees. It was whispered that faeries walked freely, and mortals might vanish into their realms for a year and a day.
Modern witches gather for Maypole dances, light sacred fires, and speak blessings into the wind. It is the time of the Green Man and the Flower Queen, of sacred sexuality, joy, and embodiment.
Litha (Summer Solstice, ~June 21)
The Crown of the Sun
At Litha, the sun reaches its zenith. The Oak King is at his strongest—but also, on this day, begins to fade. The Holly King stirs in the shadows.
Old tales speak of fire fae and sun sprites, of herbs gathered at midnight retaining magical potency. In Slavic lore, people jumped through fires and searched for fern flowers, which bloomed only for the worthy.
Witches celebrate the longest day with rituals of strength, courage, and fulfillment. Honey is poured out to the bees, and golden talismans are blessed. It is a sabbat of joy and generosity—of light that feeds the soul.
Lammas / Lughnasadh (August 1)
Bread, Blessing, and the Sacrificed King
Lammas is the first harvest, when the Grain God dies to feed the people. In Celtic myth, Lugh, the bright one, hosted funeral games for his foster mother Tailtiu, who died clearing land for agriculture.
In folk tradition, the first sheaf of grain was braided into a corn dolly and placed on the hearth. Bakers made ritual loaves, and the fields rang with singing and the creak of scythes.
Witches honor this by baking with intention, offering bread to the earth, and naming what they are willing to surrender. This sabbat reminds us: sacrifice is sacred when done with love.
Mabon (Autumn Equinox, ~September 21)
Balance, Bounty, and the Turning Inward
Again the day and night are equal, but this time, we fall into dark. Mabon, though a modern name, echoes ancient rites of thanksgiving and reckoning.
In Welsh lore, Mabon ap Modron was stolen from his mother at birth and rescued from the underworld. He is the son of light returning from shadow, mirroring the harvest god’s descent.
Witches gather apples, whisper spells into windfallen leaves, and give thanks for what is and is not. Altars bloom with grapes, gourds, and grain. We stand in that bittersweet place between fullness and falling—and we bless both.
The Wheel’s Sacred Spiral
To turn the Wheel of the Year is to turn yourself—to spiral into your own becoming. Each sabbat is more than celebration. It is a myth enacted, a ritualized remembering that time is not a line but a dance of becoming and unbecoming.
These festivals are not relics. They are alive, whispered in wind, sung in shadow, flickering in flame. The fae still stir in the hedgerows. The gods still walk the barley. The witches still light their fires.
So Come.
Gather your herbs, your stories, your courage.
Step onto the path lit by fire and frost, by blossom and bone.
Let the Wheel turn you—not away from life, but into its sacred rhythm.
