At the dawn of Imbolc, the moon is a ghostly watermelon. A perfect slice. Thick-rimmed with a hard skin that curves around seed-dotted translucence.
Hanging over a morning silent but for the birdsong.
Hanging silver in a pool of off-white sky.
Hanging peacefully over my trees, my fields, my little blackbird.
In the distance, my forest. She is mine and I am hers. The other day I watched my feet pick their way through her light-dappled mosses and great protruding roots, and wondered how I would ever cope with her ruin. She is mine and I am hers. How could I ever destroy her? Even if she were brimming with people I considered to be my enemies, destroying her could never be the answer. Not ever.
This morning, Irish-Palestinian musician Róisín El Cherif wrote of Palestine on her Instagram: “She is precious. She is broken. But not by hands that loved her.”
Imbolc. I mbolg. In the belly. Embimolgen. Budding. Oímelc. With milk. Pregnant with life. Ready to give birth to the year ahead.
In an interview for Culture File this week I was asked what I thought Brigid would say if she could speak to us now. I think she would ask us to take a few steps back, choose a different turn. Uncover the rituals that bring meaning and connect us to one another and something greater than ourselves, turn away from this culture of individualism and exponential growth.
In the months leading up to this Imbolc I have become someone who understands ritual and its tentacles.
That’s why I hung my Brat Bríde in the holly tree last night, why I am wrapped in it as I type.
Who is it I ask to bless my cloth?
The branches, the thorns, the berries, the thrush, the robin, the bullfinch, the blue tit, the wagtail, the hooded crow, the woodlouse, the spider, the worm, the morning dew.
An file, an bandia, bean na síochána (the poet, the goddess, the woman of peace).
Sky and soil.
The peacemaker. What does it even look like to pursue peace in this moment? I ask with my body, my creaky shoulder, my scratchy throat, my stormy belly.
Some say we must seek the peace within before we can seek peace without.
I’m not sure.
Maybe. I think they have to go hand in hand. They are fite fuaite. Interwoven.
February is a month of beginnings; I always felt it even before I came to understand the Celtic Wheel of the Year. I always loved that my birthday falls in February. The Tarot card I pulled for February during The Omen Days was The World. The final card in the deck.
And endings cannot but be beginnings.
Time is a snake, coiling endlessly around itself. Orbital.
The snake is the symbol of the land I stand on, not far from where St Brigid founded her monastery. An Nás. The meeting place.
Serpents appear throughout history as symbols of healing, creativity, fertility.
From today, this first day of Celtic spring, my song cycle and songbook In Cloak & Womb is available to pre-order from Bandcamp. I began writing these songs a year ago, with no idea of what they would do for me, what world they would be birthed into, how much I would need them. I set out with the aspiration to dive into the mythology surrounding Brigid, digging for her voice and weaving her echo forward through time to discover how it might find resonance in the stories that we live today.
She is the goddess of fire - fire in the belly, fire in the womb - the voice of the earth and all its inhabitants crying out: Are you listening?
These days it’s easy to despair at the thought that history will always repeat itself but on every repeat, on every turn of the wheel, there is an opportunity for new deviation. The cycle of time is not a clean-cut circle but one that carries the potential of spiralling off in new directions.
Maybe these opportunities, these little sideroads, appear only fleetingly. Maybe we have to really pay attention if we want to become active riders of the wave.
I’m one of those strange people who sometimes hangs onto winter a little too tightly. I feel a surge of resistance in my bones to the brightening of the world and the expectations that come with it. This year, as Brigid and the Cailleach engage in their handover dance on the cusp of seasons, I’m carrying the little glimmers that sparked during winter with me over the threshold.
Holding them in belly, protecting them in cloak, nourishing them in womb.
Holding them in a prayer of peace and justice and freedom for all.
Protecting them from a world that would harden them if I let it.
Nourishing them so they can grow and reach their tentacles farther than I might ever know.
If you are reading this - thank you. I’m a relative newcomer to Substack and am thoroughly enjoying these meandering explorations.
Imbolc blessings to you, a chara ♡
Such gorgeous words. Thank you ❤️🔥🌱💖
Sister 🤍