Have you noticed the light? Here, the pink has been kissing the dawn. Soft, so soft, and at dusk, it also blushes. Especially in a desert, the light changes this time of year. She has a different clarity. A brightening hue. Tinged with Possibility.
The halfway point between Winter and Spring is one of my favorite moments on the wheel of the year. Something Stirs. We still feel the deep descent and baring, dying, dark matter of Wintering. Shadow. And, there is a shift, a subtle stirring, a subtle quickening. Itâs more noticeable in some areas that are not as deeply submerged in snow. The first flowers begin to emerge. Crocuses, Daffodils. The new ewes are born and have their first taste of milk. The light increases more noticeably.
Imbolc. âIn the Belly of the Motherâ. Half-way point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. Seeds of spring are beginning to stir in the belly of Mother Earth.
On the surface, itâs about the lengthening light, the dream seeds of possibility. Connecting to the White aspect, Maiden aspect of Goddess (or Saint) Brigid. The blessing of the full belly, pregnant with spring. Ritual fire and ritual wells. Purification and Renewal.
Below the below, she is a Cauldron of Mystery. Every year, the wheel turns, and every year we invite our awareness towards the deeper and higher mysteries. Yet, the stories story themselves differently. Each turn, each year, our crown extends into mystery, beyond the way we saw it yesteryear; beneath the way we sensed it, before.
Brigit will show you the same story if you check her out on wikipedia. But if you call her in, respectfully, inviting her to season you a new story, sheâll likely have new spells, new inspirations and new incantations, new insights and new mysteries for you to follow.
For me personally, itâs the way of mystery that I curl in towards this time of year. And for me, its about attunement (or tuning in) or intuiting the deeper mysteries at the center of the Cauldron of the Year. Which is why I naturally find myself drawn to Brigidâs Welsh counterpart, Ceridwen, of the Mabinogion. And to her story, which is both about her, but also about the birth of Talieson, or inspiration.
Iâm not a Celtic scholar, though Iâve dabbled into the Druidic Mysteries both in research and in some study, as well as through felt sensing into the language of trees and the liminal. My DNA is mostly Ashkenazi/Slavic/Romanian/Roma through my fatherline and N. Italian/French, Scandinavian/German with some Celtic/Welsh and Greek Isle rouge salt spray thrown in.
I share this because I am respectful of where the stories come from, and who is their teller, or catcher, and who has ancestral roots to their origin trees, but also, because you never know how the rouge dna rattles in your bones. I know the language of elementals in a deeper than known by the mind, sort of way. And year after year, they spark my hearth towards particular archetypes or myths. During this turning point of the year, they are always a flutter over Ceridwen.
All this to say: you can enter a seasonal turning point/still point through the mind and through research, through the feelings, artistically and intuitively and through the will or the body (dance, meditation, gestures and shamanic journeying) to name a few. Itâs a nice package to give it the works and enter in with all parts open and curious. Mind, Body, Soul.
Ceridwen churns us, digests us, seasons us inside her Cauldron of Mystery and Transformation. For every turning point of the year, she offers an interesting point of view. What does she bring in spring? What does she cast in winter? How do we see her in the middle? Or at its opposite point? She Brings our attention to the deeper, darker mysteries of the dark consuming goddess at the center of the belly. And this is an important aspect of what we need to lean into during these strangely bright and dark times. She brings us to wholepoint of shadow and wound, pain and longing, life and death and life. Magic. Mysteries. And then invites us to look at it with our very own eyes, not somebody elseâs.
Cauldrons are strange containers for seeds. Seeds are also strange mysteries. They start with what is dead and transform into what has life. Put something dead into the soil and it will sprout new life. What a riddle. And when they do sprout, we must give them room to thrive. We must water them. Nourish them. Love them. Tend them. We must weed the other things out that try to take up space and overgrow the seedlings. Even if the weeds appear to be the greatest medicinal âweedsâ. Sometimes they have to be yanked. We need to give our baby seedlings enough sunlight to thrive and extend their reach and turn towards the summering sun. To flower and fruit or become what they are here to become beyond the initial sproutlings. And we need to fiercely protect these soul garden babies from critters and creatures who come with claws and sharp teeth, or who slither and slime all over them.
Itâs vulnerable business. This dreamed tending business. Why pause to take notice in a mythopoetic sense during the seasons of the year or beneath the cycles of the Moon other than to step out of the mundane or âordinaryâ and into the magical, or liminal time. Where we can do ritual, sleep with myths, and season ourselves with the soul of the season? Because we want to grow something old into something new. Why else? We want to bring back to life that which was dead. (in the mythopoetic sense). We want to resurrect and restore, renew and re-architect. Harvest and honor. Cull and release. Plant and be patient. There is power in the dark places as well as the light. Every turn on the wheel is a good medicine.
The light lengthens us as it lengthens, and it casts shadows (our shadows are often our greatest allies when worked with properly). For us in the Northern hemisphere, the seeds are stirring. They say, look at what is possible? And there is work yet to be done. Itâs not an overnight garden. Nor is it about perfection. Sure, you can have the most cultivated âperfectâ looking garden imaginable but in the landscape of soul, it is not about that. What is it about? What is this mystery that churns and turns all about for you right now, on this point of the map? It may be different for you than it is for me, and that is as it should be.
AtTune with her story and find out. Fill your belly with her Cauldron of Songlines. Drop a plant ally into the brew. Listen for her deeper heartbeat. Be warmed by the fire of the senses. Listen without seeing from the all of it with your rational. Sniff out the fear. Swim against the stream of the linear. Fly and soar above and beyond what you think is possible. And peck, peck, peck away at the millions of seeds until you capture the one that was destined to be yours. And there, tend it carefully inside the belly, lest you accidentally kill it with your own subconscious monsters. (these are all metaphors from her story).
And relax, knowing that yesâŠthere is a period of waiting before it is fully born into itself. What is its name? And who knows who it will touch? How will it lead with a life of its own? What is the spirit that inhabits it anyway?
Well, why not dance with the mystery of it all. Make love to it for all I care. And play.
Iâm offering a little seasoning this Thursday. Join me.
Click here. Cauldron of Mystery: Writes of Passage