Holding hope in your hand

The season of Imbolc.

Today marks the midway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Imbolc season.

Although Imbolc starts at dusk on the 31st January and is most often celebrated on February 1st, previously our pre-Christian ancestors would have experienced the seasonal festivals and markers of the passing of time as a full lunar cycle. A season, not one fixed date on a calendar.

It is thought that Imbolc was an old Celtic agricultural festival. The precise meaning of the word is unknown, but it could come from ‘Oimelc’ old Irish for ewe’s milk, which may have signified the beginning of lambing season and early spring.

Brigid was the ancient goddess who was worshipped at Imbolc. Revered for her protection and associations with healing, poetry, craftsmanship, hearth and home.

Imbolc represents the quickening of the earth. The lengthening of the days (albeit slowly) brings more and more light. And with the light comes the first green shoots, the gentle stirrings of life beneath the soil starting to push through. Although we are still in winter’s firm grasp, we can see that the natural world is beginning its cycle once more. What’s not to celebrate? Imbolc feels just as relevant now as it did centuries ago because of the visible signs of the world re-awakening after months of darkness and cold. It’s a seasonal sigh of relief, a glimpse of what’s to come and solace through the last few weeks of winter. Imbolc is hope.

The start to this season of Imbolc has very much been a lesson reminding me that everything is built on sand. One day everything seems as solid as bedrock, the next: grains being washed into the sea. A strong outward tide, an uncertainty, and having to find ways of staying afloat. I have been having conversations with C about distraction versus dealing with problems head-on. We have different approaches, and neither is right or wrong. So right now, distraction is what’s needed.

Distraction for me is immersing myself in nature. Noticing the small. Moving my gaze from the ground to the sky and everything in between. Details become soothing, with lists and notes creating an archive of order that brings mental restfulness. I often think to myself that in another life I would love to have been a natural historian.

The tiniest buds of pussy willow have just started to reveal their velvet tips. Gold-green catkins dangle from the hazels like wind chimes, blowing their pollen on an invisible breeze. Muddy banks – having been brown for months – are suddenly spiked with multitudes of short green spears. But it’s the snowdrops that lift my spirits the most. These small white, delicate bells are messengers, signalling the gradual warming of the earth and the promise of longer days. More hope.

The seasonal cycles remind me that nothing stays the same. As someone who needs stability and no-change-at-all-wherever-possible, this is incredibly hard. But I daresay it would be even harder if I didn’t follow the wheel of the year as it rolls through the changing landscapes. It’s a blueprint, a way of tangibly knowing and seeing that spring always follows winter, that life follows death and therefore nothing bad can stay forever.

Imbolc blessings.