Back to the Light
This post started life the day before Imbolc, a time that, for me, feels like a turning back to the light proper. Yes, I know days have been lengthening since the Solstice, allllll that time ago in December, but it’s not until now that the difference really becomes apparent. There is a freshness to the air, a fragile quality to the light. Suddenly, the wools that have swaddled us all winter feel too heavy. Walking this morning, I noticed the first soft blush of blossom in the churchyard. There is birdsong once more, and the hellebores are glowing under the maples.
January was, always is, my hibernation month. I don’t go far, I don’t do much, I allow for as much rest as possible. It’s the one month of the year where the alarm clock is never set, when I keep my meetings to a minimum, when I dig deep into my home and my practices. I do this so that, when Imbolc arrives, I feel ready for that spark of life again. Instead of moaning about the cold and the wet and the dark, by appreciating it for the rest that it is, I can rest myself. Something we shouldn’t need permission for, but often do.
2024 had been a full and busy year. Lots of here-and-there-and-gone-again travelling for personal and work reasons, so I was ready to slow down a little, but I limped to the end with rest somewhat imposed on me. A painful development in my chronic illness meant that movement became curtailed. And that’s a polite way of saying, I could do nothing. No driving, no typing, no carrying heavy bags. No yoga, no swimming, no difficult fastenings. No undoing jars, slicing bread or chopping vegetables. I could sit, I could sleep, I could read (paperbacks only).
All of this being the ultimate lesson in “if you won’t listen to your body willingly, it will make you listen.” Consider this, nearly ten weeks on, my listening. Everything got cancelled and I retreated even further into a nest than I usually do. I learned to ask for help and to not shift impatiently from one foot to another when things weren’t done at my pace. That may be the hardest thing to learn: the grace to accept what someone does for you, even if imperfectly done.
And the bonus of resting is that, as the wheel turns to Brigid and the Cailleach retreats, I’m ready to turn with it.
To me, Imbolc feels like the most delicate of the year’s way points. There is energy, literally all that life waiting to burst forth, but there is a delicacy too. Imbolc is the tiny and resilient snowdrop, the glow of marmalade setting in jars, the hesitant creep of light through morning curtains, new life cautiously entering the world. The clay items I’m making, all experimental as I find my way - one handed - with this craft, are reflecting the delicate nature of this time of year. If there was porcelain clay to work from, that would feel quite fitting.
This is Brigid’s time of year. She has been waiting, this goddess of life, light and love, this daughter of the Tuatha De Danann, for the year to turn her way. If you are a poet, a healer, a blacksmith or a farmer, this is the goddess for you. She is turning our world green again and the temptation is to rush out, sow those seeds, put plans that have been brewing since Samhain into action….Wait! Yes, she’s bringing light, but winter still reigns. Instead, use this time to review those plans. What support do they need? Where will you need to call on help? Do you need more resources to help you? Speaking as the woman who has just ordered over 500 flower seeds, you’ll always need more resources than you think!
Above all, how can you cultivate grace in this season?
This weekend, my son has been staying with us, recuperating after an illness, so we are feasting lightly. There are pancakes (yes, these are for life, not just for Shrove), minestrone made with cabbage from the allotment, homemade bread full of spelt and wholegrains. Today, I ventured to the allotment for only the second time this year. I have missed it like a phantom limb. Still on light duties only, I mostly looked at the space, planned where those 500 seeds are going to sit. This is still the planning time. This is still the rest time. Brigid is here, but she won’t be rushed.
Whilst there, a robin followed my movements, waiting to see if anything good would show up when I weeded. I left him bobbing from weeded patch to weeded patch, sifting through the soil. The song thrush was singing loudly from a nearby hedge. Returning home, I saw, for the first time ever in the wild, an otter: sleek and swift, moving through the water of the canal, not two hundred yards from my house.
Was there ever a better sight for Imbolc?
