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Imbolc brings an invitation into change,
to step into the forge of transformation,
to sink into the holy well of healing,
to open ourselves up to an evolving path
of growth and discovery.
It is now that we remember
we are our own seeds of promise
and while there is time yet
to stay in the waiting place
biding our time
and strengthening our resources
so we have what we need to grow,
soon we will feel the wheel
urging us onward,
the call to set forth
becoming unmistakable and strong.
Let us settle ourselves into center,
nestle into trust and determination,
and extend outward from here
feeling the sweet wind caress us
and the fiery forge beckon us
as we heed the summons to roll on,
the path opening up before us as we move.

I've always thought a little introspection was good for the soul, and the sabbat, Imbolc, certainly lends itself to that. If creativity can play a part in your ritual, all the better. The last two seasons of my monthly personal podcast, "Women Who Howl at the Moon," I've turned the recording device on myself. I make a point to ask aloud some challenging questions and try to be honest and open with my spontaneous answers. In a way, it's not all that different than when I used to employ my favorite toy growing up, a tape recorder. I'd record everything with that beloved instrument, and rarely—if ever—edited myself. I'd record friends, my younger brothers, conduct interviews with grandparents, act out beloved movies or spoofs on TV shows, all in the form of  a free-wheeling radio play. In some ways, little has changed, although I do admit to cleaning up too many "ums" or "tsks" if they bug me. All in all, it still remains one of my favorite communication devices of choice. You don't get hung up on the visual and distracted by that but are forced to listen closely and imagine what story you are hearing unfolding.

So Many Ways to Look Inward

In the past, I've suggested going on a peaceful winter cross-country ski in a nature setting, turning up the heat and meditating with a cup of piping hot herbal tea, or simply embracing the act of unplugging—literally all electronic devices and unnecessary noise. You can hug your inner introvert by way of a mini silent retreat with yourself. Or this year you could dim the lights, make sure you're in a sound-proof setting where you won't be disturbed, and hit record for a little self-talk. You certainly don't need any fancy recording devices or software to do this. Most Smart Phones come equipped with a recording device. Whether you choose to share your innermost thoughts or no, is distinctly up to you. At the very least, play the recording back to yourself at a later date—perhaps at the Spring Equinox, or even Lammas, since that is one of the four major sabbats, and opposite Imbolc on the calendar wheel. Check in and listen to you express your thoughts privately. See what's changed and what's remained the same. Take note in your journal and act accordingly.

 "It is the Washin' o' the World's Face."

(R. García y Robertson, The Spiral Dance)

Our story so far: The Chinese have invaded America and then (for reasons never specified) pulled out again. The East Coast literally walls itself off from the rest of the Continent and becomes a stuck-in-the-head techno-megalopolis.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Continent reverts to tribalism. Foremost among these tribes are the Latter-Day Witches who call themselves "Circle", or "Coven", who through centuries of inbreeding have achieved mastery of the art of direct mind-to-mind communication, what they call lep.

(If you suspect that this has something to do with telepathy, I think you're probably right.)

That's the universe of Marvin Kaye and Parke Godwin's Masters of Solitude series, some of the earliest (late 70s/early 80s) popular literature to be profoundly shaped by the emerging Wiccan movement.

Being, in effect, our children, the people of Circle observe the same Wheel of the Year that we do today. Part of the fun of the novels for pagans lies in extricating the names of the firedays from what 1000 years' worth of linguistic erosion have left of them.

For Circle folk, Eostre/Ostara/Easter is Leddy. (I myself can remember back when, in the early days of American paganism, some folks knew Spring Equinox as Lady Day.) Then comes Belten, Sinjin (< “Saint John['s Day]"), Lams, Milemas ( < Michaelmas), Samman, and Loomin for Yule. (I'm guessing that this latter is probably a worn-down form of illumine, drawn perhaps from Doreen Valiente's quintessential Yule chant Queen of the Moon, Queen of the Sun: "Golden Sun of the Mountains,/Illumine the Land, Light up the World,/Illumine the Seas and the Rivers,/Sorrows be laid, Joy to the World." If so, it's a nicely folkloric touch.)

Their Imbolg/Oimelc/Candlemas is Grannog.

We have been in the long dark for the past few months. Cold, snowy weather and the now-ever-present threat of serious disease have kept us inside our homes, bundled in cozy clothes and blankets, sipping our tea or coffee or hot cocoa. We’re expecting yet another snowstorm here in the eastern U.S., more to add to the snow that hasn’t left us from the last one. We yearn to step out into light and warmth, feel soft grass beneath our feet, but not yet. Still, the time of long light will come again. The days are already beginning to gradually unfurl like the fronds of a fern.

Over a doobie one festival afternoon, Feri elder Alison Harlow and I are talking holidays.

“I just love Imbolc,” she says wistfully, “when the almond trees bloom.”

All real paganism is local. Allison was a daughter of Califia, through and through.

Me, though, I'm a naturalized Minnesotan. For us, Imbolc is the time of year when we're up to our asses in snow, when the cold between the stars descends to Earth, when night is loud with the gunshot report of cracking trees.

Here in the North Country, we love Imbolc too, but we love it because it means that Winter's halfway over, and that we may just—if we're lucky—have a chance of living to see Spring again.

Truly, all paganism is local.

“Shut the f*ck up,” I tell her, laughing.