I spoke a week or so ago of feeling the season’s evolution. Feeling the sunshine, the impatience of springtime, wanting to start NOW.
55 degrees today. We haven’t seen freezing temperatures since December. But at the same time, you can’t celebrate the sun when the mountains are not seeing the snows they need to give us water. And ironically, the life of water to me, the water-bearer, also rings true in my career. Today they said it was the 8th driest season on record, causing our reserves to be down by the size of 5 reservoirs. Without water, there is no energy. Without energy, there is no light. Without light, there is no paycheck.
Not that I’m in fear of losing my job. I just notice that wherever I go, the yin and the yang of life are constantly reminding me of their existence. I have felt closeness and intensity of epic proportion, yet a layer of distance and separation that I have stopped trying to understand. I no longer feel the ripples of tension that used to sway me from branch to branch. Instead I place pressure upon myself to reach into my own soul and find what is pure and sweat, to allow my love to seep into my own wounds and heal the girl inside.
It is the time of Imbolic. From February Two to March Twenty-One, it is the season to prepare for growth and renewal. It is “to celebrate the things that are yet to be born”. Marking the halfway point between the dark and the light, I can feel it breathing new life into me.
In Ireland, the land was prepared to receive the new seed with spade and plough; calves were born, and fishermen looked eagerly for the end of winter storms and rough seas to launch their boats again. In Scotland, the Old Woman of winter, the Cailleach, is reborn as Bride, Young Maiden of Spring, fragile yet growing stronger each day as the sun rekindles its fire, turning scarcity into abundance. Of her, Alexander Carmichael wrote:
‘Bride with her white wand is said to breathe life into the mouth of the dead Winter and to bring him to open his eyes to the tears and the smiles, the sighs and the laughter of Spring. The venom of the cold is said to tremble for its safety on Bride’s Day, and to flee for its life on Patrick’s Day.’