Imbolc has passed and the dusk-light of February stretches deeper into the shadows. Two nights ago I stepped out of my comfortable home and into the secret hum-song of a moonlit night, calm and ocean blue. Above me soared cloud formations–no, cloud spirits, so remarkable were they in their whispy curling formations–graced with silver wings. And all the trees quivered in their silent excitement of being dressed in the rare light of the Queen of the Heavens. I joined them in their worship.
This is all I desire, I think: to join the Earth in her wild beauty, to be her mirror. On Sunday, two days after the astronomical date of the ancient holiday Imbolc (which marks the halway point between Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox), I hosted a ritual among the hemlocks that dwell in Brigid’s realm, where three streams meet. It was something I’d never done before, and I was nervous and focused on my ineptitude until my feet were planted among those great trees, with whom I nurture a relationship. Then it was if my heart spilled open silver green needle-leaves and I was drenched in love–the kind of love that is Earth-Union, remembrance that we are her body, and there is nothing that we meet (save the rare meteor that escapes the complete burn of her atmosphere) that is not Her, our Mother, Goddess of Life.