IMBOLC




To realize the truth of being by myself
I grow colder as the days go forth
Oh how I wish for a fiery love to warm my frozen heart
I wish to feel safe in the kiss of a lover
To look into eyes that speak of love for me

--London Kennedy

and I swear sometimes
when I put my head to his chest
I can hear the virus humming

like a refrigerator.
Which is what makes me think
you can take your positive attitude

and go straight to hell.
We don't have a future,
we have a dog. Who is he?

-- Chad the Minx

Imbolc’s here again. Those who keep the ancient ways know what this day is and what it means. I will never call it Groundhog Day. The cheapens the whole affair. In this part of the world even the name Candlemas has lost its power. The feast of Brigid, the lady of flame, healing, poetry and all craft, the day of purification and dedication, reflection and meditation. This is the day when after a bleak midwinter, and frozen hearts, thwarted dreams and perished desires we march toward growth again. We march toward… March.
In Christian churches that remember the old ways the season of Christmas comes to an official end. Candles are blessed, dedication made. The same with the pracitioners of the Craft in all British traditions. In Greek traditions we remember this is the day that Persephone was redeemed, and began her long march from the land of death, back to the world of growth and light. It is no easy to task to live again when you have been in the shadows so long.

To my surprise, when I look out my window I see that despite all the snow, the sun rises earlier and the days last longer. For the first time in weeks the weather is above ten degrees and my fingers don’t hurt with the cold after having walked only a block.

Last year my mother said, “I’m not ready for spring…” she was so worried about the return of it. I knew exactly what she meant. As cold as it gets it can be scary to be unfrozen, to have to live again, to have to feel again, to have to move.

Brigid, assist us!


Winter
freezes the hands
the sap, the earth,
the ink
the only thing not frozen is the speed of thoughts
they race beneath the ice
my imagination races hotter than mustangs caught
in the desert sun
sweating to death till they lose their lather
this mind races swifter than late March spring water