Imbolc

The quickening moon is upon us.

The flutter of a heart from somewhere deeper than our sorrow, a lamb sleeps inside her mother’s woolen belly, and Brigid guides the hands of the women who tend to the hearth fire.

The winter winds howl their protests while underground the roots stir. “We are coming”, they whisper. “We will push against the frozen earth until it gives; until the birth of spring is won.”

And so, we who wait now become the dreamers. We sleep even more deeply than before. We wander into other worlds that we have no recollection of upon waking. We look to a patch of blue in the sky and remember that it does still exist above the winter’s somber cloak. We dare to hope and we feel audacious and brave for doing so.

And then, from some forgotten star, a tiny spark forms, making its way through the clouds that squeeze our souls so tight. It plants itself there amongst what’s left of our spirit, so that it can grow. We name it Imbolc, and we nurture it with everything left in our fallow hearts.

The roots push harder, the lamb stretches and stirs, the old women smile and look to the sky…and the wheel turns.