Imbolc in the Year of Yes

 

It’s the beginning of the second  month of my “Year of Yes.” Specifically, it’s February 2, otherwise known as Imbolc. 

The article I referenced makes Brigid sound rather cuddly. She is also the goddess of poets and smiths and a healing goddess–one of my patrons as a writer and “maker.” I’m a pagan, but I’m not one for complicated rituals. I honor this day by getting out into nature to search for signs of the coming spring in what is often the depths of winter, and by writing poetry.  I’d actually never heard about the ritual housecleaning that article mentioned, but it’s not a bad idea over the next few days. I like the idea of making room for the goddess and the new season. Besides, I must have tracked in about four pounds of mud between yesterday’s hikie and today’s!

Today was unseasonably warm, but that warmth led to some challenges on the trail. Snow and frozen earth are not bad to negotiate. Mud, rotten ice, and streams where the trail used to be are a bit challenging. But the air smelled of mud and promise, the preserve was tapping its maples–a sure sign that the days are warming, that spring will come, though there is much winter left–and the woods were full of life.

 

And while slipping and sliding down a muddy, icy trail, I composed a poem. It’s still rough around the edges, but in this case, I think the roughness makes it full of life.

 

Hiking through mud and snowmelt

On Brigid’s day, slipping on rotten

Ice and struggling to keep my feet

I sang praises with my panting breath

To the cantankerous goddess we honor

At the halfway point between the lights and festivities

Of Yule and spring’s green arrival. Patron

Of smiths and poets, sister

To the fierce Morrigan, Brigid offers tough love.

She heals, but you must do your part. She warms,

But you must tend her sacred fire.

At Imbolc she brings lambs, but birth comes

In blood and mud amid treacherous weather.

If she is a mother goddess, she is the kind of mother

Who tells it like it is, who doesn’t always catch you

When you fall, though she’ll reach out a strong hand

To help you up again. She knows shit turns to compost

In time, and we blossom from struggle. Her libation

Burns like whiskey, but its taste lingers sweet on the palate. Her day

Brings the promise of spring and the knowledge

You are strong enough to slog

Through the rest of winter to get to it.

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