Imbolc Ritual Meditation
Settle yourself. Close your eyes. Feel your body relax. Feel as the tensions
drain away from your face, your neck, your shoulders, your arms, your torso,
your legs. Sense the whole of your body, calm, heavy in its relaxation.
Center yourself. Feel for that calm, comfortable center in which you are whole.
Ground yourself. Extend yourself into the Earth, your mother. Feel as your
roots grow into the ground, as you find your connectedness with her again.
This time is the time of Imbolc, the midpoint between the Winter Solstice and
the Spring Equinox. The sun has begun his journey back to full strength. He was
born at Yule, and progresses through his transformation from infant to young
man. He is potential, waiting to be realized. The days are lengthening as the
nights shorten. Each day the sun brings a little more warmth, foretelling the
thaw to come. For now, however, the Earth remains in slumber, Spring still only
a faint whisper.
Extend your senses beyond the walls, to the world outside. Smell in the crisp
air the hard frosts that grip the land. The cold grabs the inside of your nose,
and every breath is a gasp. See the dark gray skies. Sharp ice crystals bite
into your cheeks as the wind whips the tops off the snow drifts. A branch
breaks with a loud snap as cracks caused by summer storms finally lose their
battle with the weight of heavy snows.
Foxes sleep, snug in their dens, as sparrows fight for a chance at the feeder,
not always refilled. The bright flash of a cardinal contrasts starkly with the
sullen white snow, a bloody gash across a barren landscape. Ice coats the twigs
and chimes in the breezes. Rebirth seems remote - even the call of the goose is
a distant memory.
But look into the barns and the fields and watch the teats of the cows and the
ewes begin to swell. The milk is beginning to flow. Old loin-fires of bulls
and rams are soon to burst forth as the first new calves and lambs. They will
struggle up on unsteady limbs, symbols of the green waiting impatiently to
explode from the as yet quiescent soil.
This is the time of metamorphosis, of the promise of fruition of seeds sown in
seasons past. Brigid stokes these fires, inspiring the bard, the smith, the
healer. Fertility and creativity begin to flow in this dormant season, as small
things born at the solstice begin to manifest, heralding the full flowering to
arrive when the sun reconquors his throne.
Fire. The fires in our hearths. Feel the warmth, smell the food cooking. The
fires in our smithies. The clang of hammer striking anvil, shaping raw metal
into tools. The fire of desire. The climax which joins cell with cell in the
creation of life. The fires of creativity. Music rings and voices flow as
living beauty is sculpted from idle words and actions. The fire of
transformation. The season of transformation from the depths of Winter into the
rebirth of Spring.
Now, slowly, gradually, come back inside. Come back to us. Begin to sense the
world inside. Prepare yourself to celebrate this season of Brigid, this season
of fire, this season of changes. Rouse yourself. Be ready to grab the spoke
and turn the wheel past the numbing cold of winter to the seductive promise of
Spring, as we join together in the celebration of Imbolc!