October 15 – The Turning of the Key

Magic of thresholds and crossroads; protection during seasonal transition.

There comes a moment in every autumn when the air itself feels like a doorway. It is neither summer nor winter, neither life nor death, but the space between. You feel it in the cool hush before dawn, in the way the mist clings low over the ground, and in the strange stillness that precedes the turning of the year. This is threshold time — a moment of crossing, of opening and closing, of endings giving birth to beginnings. And in this liminal season, the key becomes a sacred symbol: the tool that opens, the charm that protects, the emblem of transformation itself.

The ancients revered thresholds as potent places where the seen and unseen touched. A doorframe was more than a structure; it was a boundary between worlds. To step across it was to enter new energy, and thus each crossing was a minor rite. In Celtic households, the threshold was sprinkled with salt or blessed water to bar ill spirits; in Rome, offerings were made to Janus, the two-faced god of doorways and time, before passing into a new year or venture. Even today, we sense this old magic when we hesitate before a closed door, or when we turn a key in a lock — that quiet, private moment of transition that says something is changing.

October 15 stands poised in that same liminal balance. The nights deepen, the first real chill lingers, and the earth feels as though it holds its breath. The spirit world draws nearer, yet the living world resists surrender. This is the moment to tend our spiritual doors — to make sure what should enter may do so freely, and what should remain outside is respectfully barred.

To work threshold magic is to become aware of all the crossings in our lives. There are the literal ones — doors, gates, paths, crossroads — but also the unseen ones: transitions of the heart, the turning points of identity, the spaces between one chapter and the next. Each of these thresholds asks for intention. To walk through them consciously is to live magically. To ignore them is to invite confusion, stagnation, or unwelcome energies that drift in with the wind.

Today, take a moment to bless your thresholds. Begin with your front door. Stand before it quietly. Notice its weight, its hinges, the feel of the key in your hand. This is not just wood and metal; it is the guardian of your home’s energy. Hold your key and whisper gratitude for the protection it provides. If you wish, anoint the doorframe with a mixture of salt and water, or a few drops of rosemary or cedar oil, tracing a small protective sigil. As you do so, speak aloud or silently: “By key and threshold, by hearth and bone, this home is sealed in peace.”

Keys themselves carry deep symbolic resonance. In folklore, they represent power, access, and knowledge. To possess a key is to hold authority — not just over physical space, but over destiny. Witches of old wore keys on cords or belts, not merely as tools but as talismans. The “witch’s key” opened doors between worlds, allowing the practitioner to move between states of awareness or realms of being. The clinking of keys was said to frighten away malevolent spirits, much as iron was believed to do. Even now, a single antique key hung near the front door serves as both charm and reminder: the power to open and close belongs to you.

On this day, consider creating a small threshold charm for protection during the dark half of the year. Find an old key — any key that feels right in your hand. Clean it with saltwater or smoke to clear residual energy. Then anoint it with a little oil (olive, cedar, or lavender will do). As you work, focus your intent on guarding the passages of your life — your home, your heart, your mind. Tie a red or black thread around the key, symbols of vitality and protection, and hang it above your door or keep it with you. Each time you see or touch it, let it remind you that you move through the world with awareness and purpose.

The crossroads too are sacred thresholds, though they exist in the wild rather than the home. In myth, they are places where gods and spirits linger, where offerings are made, and where decisions carry weight. Hecate, the torch-bearing guardian of witches, is said to watch from the threefold path, guiding travelers through uncertainty. On nights when you feel directionless, you may walk to the nearest intersection or natural crossroads — a fork in a path, a meeting of trails — and stand quietly. Feel the energies converge beneath your feet, and ask for guidance. Whisper: “Hecate, Keeper of keys, light the path before me.” Leave a small offering — bread, honey, or even a pebble from your pocket — as a token of respect.

Thresholds are also internal. There are doors in the heart that stay closed out of fear or pain, and keys that only courage can turn. This season invites you to examine those inner locks. What have you barred from yourself — what truth, emotion, or memory waits behind the closed door? The act of turning the key is not always gentle; sometimes it creaks with resistance. But within those hidden chambers lie parts of the soul that need to breathe again. When you open them, you reclaim fragments of your own magic.

Equally important is knowing when to close a door. Protection magic is as much about boundary as openness. Just as you would not leave your home unlatched in the night, so too must you guard your spiritual space. Close the door on negativity, gossip, exhaustion, and anything that feeds on your light. You may visualize locking that energy out with a firm twist of your key. The act need not be literal — your will is the mechanism, your focus the metal that seals.

Threshold work is a dance between invitation and denial. The Turning of the Key teaches discernment. It is not about fear of what lies beyond, but about respect for the balance between worlds. As Samhain approaches, the veil between realms will thin further. Spirits, dreams, memories — all will flow more freely. To turn the key consciously is to prepare, to choose what energies you allow into your life as the darkness grows long.

This evening, as dusk falls and the world shifts once more toward night, hold a key in your hand. Feel its cool metal. Turn it slowly, as if unlocking an invisible door. Say quietly: “I open to what serves my spirit. I close to what seeks to harm. Between the worlds I stand, guarded and free.” Then place the key somewhere meaningful — near your bedside, on your altar, or in your pocket — a reminder that transitions, no matter how small, are sacred when done with awareness.

As the night deepens, imagine every light in your home as a warm beacon behind locked doors. Outside, the wind may howl, the leaves may scatter across paths unseen, but within, there is peace — the peace that comes from protection, from knowing that the turning of the key is an act of choice. The threshold has been blessed; the way between worlds has been marked with care.

And when morning comes and the mist lifts again, you will find yourself standing on the far side of that invisible crossing — changed, stronger, and ready to walk deeper into October’s mysteries.