Mid-Winter Stirrings

Today is Candlemas or Imbolc- literally “in the belly.” It is the celebration of the first stirrings of the fire of life in seeds that will sprout with springtime warmth. Because the seed that stirs deep in the belly of the earth portends new life to come, it is considered a good time for reading oracles, for catching a glimpse of the life that is to come (or, more mundanely, predicting the weather by the actions of the proverbial ground hog.)

I’ve been reading William Bridge’s wonderful book The Way of Transition. Drawing on his experience of the death of his wife, Bridges (a prophetic name for his life’s work re: helping individuals and organizations move through times of transition) offers wisdom on how to move through the three aspects of transition: the ending- the acknowledging and letting go of what is no more; the “neutral space” when what was is no more and what is to come is not yet known (but is eventually sensed as an invisible, indefinable stirring); and the new beginning.

Sometimes Bridges’ “neutral space” doesn’t feel very neutral at all. It can feel like falling through an endless abyss as our sense of who we have been, what dreams we’ve held, and how we’ve functioned on a daily basis no longer fits. This can feel threatening, difficult, frightening and bewildering. Things we once enjoyed no longer hold interest or value for us. We can feel quite lost. And in a culture that loves speed and action, goals and focused attention we can feel like there is something wrong with us.

It has been ten months since my marriage ended. I consider what has ended, what has been let go:

I am no longer someone’s wife.

I do not intimately share my home, my bed, my heart and my dreams with one other daily.

I no longer have a home in the country, nor the furnishings I’d collected over thirty years- my Grandmother’s dining set; the four poster bed I saved for ten years to purchase while sleeping on a futon on the floor; the earthenware dishes I bought for hosting dinners with friends and family. . . . .

I no longer have to find room for all of what I had accumulated over thirty years.

I do not have to shape my day around another’s needs.

I cannot use another’s needs as the reason or excuse for not doing what I say I want or need to do.

I no longer dream of a co-created future with this man.

I am no longer confined in my dreaming to what would speak to or work for us both.

The implicit agreements to play certain roles no longer hold- he as Mr. go-with-the-flow, me as the planner; he as the spender, me as the budgeter ; he as messy, me as neat-freak and many others. I no longer have to hold to the boxes we (largely unconsciously) agreed were mine. I am allowed my own ease and worry, my own frugality and spending, my own spontaneity and planning. (Okay, I'm still pretty consistently a neat-freak.)

There is more of course. Beyond the logistics and agreements of a shared life, an old pattern of being, a belief planted in me at an early age that I had to work hard in every moment, taking care of others to earn my right to be- is made available for letting go. It’s a choice- not a once-and-for-all choice- but a choice that is available to me each day, a practise for one who was trained to be the means to others’ ends.

And, as I let go, I step fully into this time of in-between, of not-knowing, of Imbolc- the place where I feel a stirring of a seed that was planted before any beliefs were learned, a seed that holds the blueprint, the spiritual DNA of a life more true to who and what I am.

So, on this Imbolc, on this feast day of the Goddess Brigit, patron of smith-craft and poetry and midwifery, I light a candle to honour the stirring, and open the dreaming eye to catch a glimpse of colours to come:

a slash of the blood-red vermilion of my own intensity of being, unfettered;

the swirl of the rainbow robe of the story-teller who has secrets to tell;

a movement in the mist- a figure cloaked in blue, headed for the isle of dreams;

bare feet twirling on dark earth, dancing close to the fire;

clear eyes silent, watching, steady in their gaze, mirroring a turquoise sea;

yellow of blazing sun, silver of silent moon;

the brush of an owl’s soft wing on my forehead;

words on a page whispered aloud into the darkness, ripples across still water;

ease and strength in muscle and bone;

a tall silhouette standing in the shadows by the river- maiden, mother, crone carved in one body;

water, dark and foaming, rushing through the gorge between high walls of stone. . . . .

What is stirring in your belly and in the darkness of the earth beneath your feet? What would you honour in lighting a candle? Can you catch a glimpse of movement, a scent of something that foreshadows what is to come that you might till the soil of your life in preparation?