January, if we are lucky and our daily lives allow, can be a time of contemplation, of looking back over the past year, of quietly getting our lives in order, whilst also looking ahead to the summer to come. While the earth seems to sleep, with long nights and cold days, the first new shoots make it above ground and buds on the trees remind us that spring isn't far...but the time of quiet is still here for a while at least. I always find a struggle against natures rhythms is never very productive, and it's better to do what must be done in the modern world and retire to the fireside or get out under wide winter skies as much as possible. January to me is a liminal time, a threshold point and should be honoured as such- neither here nor there, neither the renewal and festivity of winter solstice nor the bright candlelight of Imbolc...it's that in between time when magic can really happen, when things can really change if we catch the moment and steer ourselves a little differently, or weave a new thread into our webs of wyrd.
I think the Celts of the past new this well, and liminal magic seems to be a forgotten skill of theirs. Janus figures, two faced gods named after the Roman god of beginnings and doorways crop up all over the Celtic world and are undoubtedly pre-Roman deities but are often unknown among those following the Celtic path today. Famous examples include the double-faced horned Iron Age statue ( 4th - 2nd century BCE) from Holzgerlingen in Germany, the two headed sculpture from Roquepertuse ( 600-124 BCE) and the two double faced god statues, which are probably Iron age, from Boa island in Ireland.
I think of the two faced god at this time of year, and try to draw on a little of his magic. Here at the threshold, the adventure of a new year ahead, I may cast off my tattered baggage, my dreams that no longer serve, or I may tenderly pack away my memories and breathe in a new future, new dreams. Here, at 'the wet gap of the year' there is power.
‘January God’
by Seamus Heaney
Then I found a two faced stone
On burial ground,
God-eyed, sex-mouthed, it’s brain
A watery wound.
In the wet gap of the year,
Daubed with fresh lake mud,
I faltered near his power —-
January God.
Who broke the water, the hymen
With his great antlers —-
There reigned upon each ghost tine
His familiars,
The mothering earth, the stones
Taken by each wave,
The fleshy aftergrass, the bones
Subsoil in each grave.
© Danu Forest2017
www.danuforest.co.uk
