Imbolc
Beneath the snow, something stirs. The ewes begin to milk. We are not yet in spring, but spring is in us.
Here, candlelight and snowdrops; where you are, what is the first sign that the world remembers warmth?
Imbolc is not spring. The ground is still frozen, the nights still long. But something has shifted—a quickening beneath the surface, invisible but certain. The ewes know it before we do. Their milk comes in, and with it, the first promise.
This is the feast of Brigid, keeper of the forge and the well, the flame and the word. She tends what is not yet visible. She knows that beginnings happen in the dark.
Practice
On Imbolc eve, place a cloth or ribbon outside your door—on a branch, a railing, a windowsill. Leave it overnight. In the morning, bring it in. This is Brigid’s mantle, touched by her passing. Keep it somewhere safe. It carries blessing for the year.
Light candles in every window at dusk. Let the house become a lantern. This is not for others to see—it is for the returning light to find its way.
If you have seeds saved from autumn, take them out. Hold them. They don’t need planting yet, just witnessing. Remind them they haven’t been forgotten.
Reflection
What in you is stirring but not yet ready to be seen? What would it mean to tend something invisible?
Notes
The snowdrop is Imbolc’s flower—blooming through snow, improbably early. If you see one, stop. That small defiance is worth your attention.