Imbolc and Candlemas
For Imbolc this year, I made a wreath from mimosa, rosemary, thyme, and bay, and laid it out for Brigid. I left a scarf outside too, so she might bless it while I slept. These small gestures feel right at this point in the year—half ritual, half instinct—acts of attention offered to a season that is not yet ready to answer back.
The first full moon of February feels especially powerful. It brings a strange restlessness, a hum under the skin, yet somehow it lets us sleep like rocks once night finally falls. Perhaps it’s the kind of tiredness that comes from honest work. A long, busy day in the garden: pruning and chopping, clearing beds of old dried plants that birds and insects are no longer using or needing. Making space.
Imbolc sits halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox. The days are lengthening, but they still feel chilly. The rain feels endless. And yet, there are moments. Warmth on my skin that reminds me I am not imagining things.
There is an awakening, a stirring. Imbolc is often said to mark a deeper bringing-forth of life. In the seeds buried in the soil, there is movement—some awakening, some not yet visible—but something is happening, that’s for sure.
We are at Candlemas.
Halfway through winter.
Halfway.
How utterly hopeful.
We are just beginning the climb out of the cold. The things that are stirring now are either hardy or courageous—or both. The hellebores and narcissus know this well: flopping flat to the ground when frozen, only to spring back to life the moment the sun touches their stems.
When the sun is out, I can forget all of this. I stand at the kitchen window with my tea and watch it warm the fields. Light glints along the edges, giving everything a luminous, almost unreal quality. When the sun is out, my spirits soar.
With all this talk of stirring and awakening, you may feel tempted to sow seeds. I have too… actually, I already have. You just need to know what to start, and to remember that the weather is not reliable yet, that there is still cold to come. I’ve started my sweet peas and cobaea, and my anemones and ranunculus are pre-sprouting.
There is hope. Much hope. I’ve seen the first blossom on a plum tree. Some Avalanche narcissus are already flowering, and the mimosa is out. The scent is so heart-opening—it goes straight to my soul.
I am preparing wreaths to spread the joy, the love, the hope. In a world much in need of care, be the giver. Share your hope. And if you can, smell the mimosa, and let the sun kiss your skin.
These are small acts, but they feel enough—an offering to Brigid, and a quiet trust in the light’s return.
