Imbolc

A Song in the Dark

Perhaps it’s the wind through the evergreen branches or the sound of my own heart beating under water, but tonight, on the eve of Imbolc, I hear a faint song inside the shadows. In the dark heart of Winter, light is growing.

Like the land these last few months, I must admit, parts of me have also been dormant—dreams pushed deep underground, desire hidden at the root. At times, I have felt dysregulated and disconnected, even numb. I have a fear of stagnating. So, when I go through periods of feeling stuck or unproductive, my tendency is to want to move faster even though what I may really need in those moments is to slow down and just be.

Nature is always growing, dissolving and changing. No state remains fixed. Now, as seeds are stirring in their cradles and the greening of the mountain has begun, I feel a creative force moving in me too.

We are in the midst of another “atmospheric river” here in the Pacific Northwest. All of the seasonal creeks are gushing and the metal trough I recently set up outside as a cold plunge is overflowing along with the bird baths in the garden. I absolutely love being out in a storm—walking with my dogs through the forest in the rain, trudging through mud in my rain boots to tend to the goats, standing, arms open, in the wailing wind. All of these bring my body and spirit rapturously alive.

Imbolc is a pagan holy day widely celebrated in Ireland and Scotland since the olden days. Nestled midway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, it is a time to honor renewal in the natural world and to recognize that same potential within ourselves. We feel the quickening though it is not yet made manifest.

The word, Imbolc (pronounced with a silent “b”), comes from the Old Irish and translates to “in the belly”. Lambs are growing full in the womb around this time and the vegetal realm is gestating too. Imbolc holds the promise of tender green shoots, the miracle of birth and the flow of sheep and goat milk that many of our ancestors depended on to sustain them through the last half of a cold harsh Winter. To this day, many light candles or stoke a fire in the hearth at sundown on the eve of Imbolc to welcome the arrival of this sacred gateway and to invoke, Brigid, Celtic goddess of inspiration, fertility and healing.

With flowers woven through her flowing red hair. Brigid, also known as The Bright One, moves with grace and fire. She lends passion and ingenuity to poets and blacksmiths alike and gives strength to women in birth. She is the keeper of the sacred wells, diviner and protector of livestock and those who care for them. Her essence is wild and wise, gentle, resilient. As mistress of the elements, she is a shapeshifter, the consort of change. Sometimes depicted with an offering of fire in her cupped hands, she is an ally in tending the sacred flame within.

The altar of Brigid. Artist unknown.

“In a dark time, the eye begins to see.” ⟡ Theodore Roethke

In many ways, it feels as though we are all betwixt and between right now. Turning with the wheel of the seasons, yes, but also collectively suspended somewhere between what is known and familiar and what is emerging. Humanity is at the liminal edge of our own unfolding. There is no map for where we’re going but we will each need a compass, a North Star to guide us.

As dissonance in the world grows louder and demands on our attention only seem to increase, it’s easy to get lost. If you lean in and listen close enough though, there is a song rising from the dark to meet you. A song so clear and true that it calls you back to yourself, back to life. Like the song of a seed, it is a glimmer grown in quiet depths. a harmony you know by heart but may have long since forgotten. It is yours and yours alone. It leads back to the light.

On this storm-born February day, I have a fire burning in the wood stove and beeswax candles flickering on the table beside me. Rain is falling harder now on the barren branches of the plum tree. The garden beds are a black slate and the glass jars of herbs I harvested last Summer for tea are almost empty.

We are still wrapped in Winter’s blanket, but with the arrival of Imbolc, we know that Spring is drawing us ever closer to her. Feel the promise of her delicate pink blossoms on your collarbone, the warmth of the Sun on your bare toes. Even as you stretch toward the honey-scented swarm, trust your natural rhythm.

Tend the flame.

The almond tree on our hillside, blooming early this year. Northern California