31/01/2026
Imbolc - A small tending.
This is the threshold Brigid belongs to.
I’m less interested now in tracing her lineage or naming her attributes than in noticing how her presence registers, letting seasonal intelligence lead rather than using it as ornament - An intelligence that doesn’t push, a fire that doesn’t demand fuel, just tending.
The days are still short, and the cold still holds, the trees are still bare, the only signals are the potential the air holds - nothing looks convincingly like spring, yet the dark has loosened its grip, just enough to let a different quality of attention and light in. The light returns without announcing itself, and my body senses change.
Imbolc lives here.
Not in any dramatic sense, but as a quivering inside stillness. The dark is no longer closing in.
Imbolc, i mbolg - in the belly. A sense of something quietly organising beneath the surface, asking for protection at the moment rather than exposure. The work here is not expression, but containment - for now. No need to rush toward light, no need to convert feeling into action, no need to explain what hasn’t finished forming.
I say this because, I dont want to get saturated with Brigid ornaments and superficial totems, it can suddenly become very easy to misread this moment. How tempting it can be to treat it as a signal to begin again, to re-enter at speed, and doing, to make plans. Instead, Imbolc asks for a different kind of participation: A devotion without display.
Permission to move my body more, to warm what has been resting. A quiet pull toward simple food and repetition. Sap shifting in preparation to rise.
It’s less about orientation - where am I, what comes next - and more about inhabitation. How do I live inside what’s already here? If I were a tree, how would I live inside this trunk, this bark, these branches that are still bare to the onlooker but working and preparing within?
