I’ve been in a transformative slumber and I can sense a new path emerging – but not just yet. I’m still in hibernation, as is this nation, with stirrings of spring beginning and midday looking bright, yet Cailleach’s wintry grip remains tight. It’s cold, it’s bare. And though many animals appear confused at the push and pull of nature’s wheel this season, the intention for me is clear: rest, for now.
It feels potent to be in a time of upheaval in my life yet still allowing myself a full winter’s rest. December was tough, January too, and February’s cold bite keeps me in hibernation. I’ve done away with goal-setting and purposely forgetting what I believe I ‘should’ be doing with the turn of a year. Rest and reflection, ignoring perfection, and only sewing seeds of intention when my body says yes.
Yet, despite this reluctance to emerge, this morning’s walk and the words that came to me did carry ruffles of newness and momentum that I cannot ignore. So much so that I made a reel – something I usually avoid, made clear by my absence. Stirrings indeed…
Are you emerging with spring or do you remain in slumber? Read on for the poem.
AN ODE TO REST: IMBOLC MUSINGS
I’m late to the Imbolc party, deep in the belly of my own hearty rest.
The Earth is stirring, the cogs are whirring,
yet my soul longs for slumber
At best.
Buds appearing with rebirth nearing, yet fog and ice inhibit the clearing.
Not yet, my dear,
Mist is still here.
With lamb in belly, Imbolc brings many
emotions to the fore.
But spring isn’t quite ready,
I’m not yet bright and heady,
May I bask in winter some more?
These dark days of rain, ice and fog,
Remind us we still have time,
For cherishing slowness, healing, recovery,
Just you and yours, and me and mine.
I know something within me
Will soon be beginning,
A change of direction
New medicine is near.
But at the moment,
We can hibernate
Just a little while longer
Before Earth’s spring is fully upon her.
It’s almost time for the transformative power,
Of springtime but for now, another hour
Immersed in the fog,
Oh the joy and the ache
Of blessed Imbolc.
The Ancient Magpie 