Today is Imbolc, and Winter is officially over, though we are a long way from feeling the warmth of Spring air and the scent of Spring blossoms. February is a cold and dark month; so much so that one would be forgiven for not noticing the change of season. Spring has a slow awakening, tentative and cautious, marked by those brave scouts sent ahead to lead the way- the snowdrop.
I saw my first patch of snowdrops two days ago and felt the kind of giddy elation that comes with knowing change is coming. I also spotted my first stinging nettles growing along the path, their leaves a temptingly fluffy lie. I have always celebrated at the sight of snowdrops, knowing that they herald the coming of Spring and will soon be followed by the joyous crocus and happy daffodil. Celebrating stinging nettles is new, and a sure sign of my changed relationship with this long-feared plant.
I have finished cording the nettles I picked last year and am working on a few ideas with them. If the ideas work, I will need more nettles. There is a challenging joy in working with wild materials, ones that do not follow the demands of my creativity but rather the natural cycles of the earth around me. I cannot simply go out and buy stinging nettles, nor order them online. These first new leaves are a promise, that come midsummer, tall patches of nettles will be ready to pick, dry, cord, and sculpt with. I cannot rush them, I must wait and walk with the seasons as they come.
I wrote two weeks ago about the idea of productive hibernation, of slowing down as winter continued around me, of creating and working in slow deep breaths. It was my new experiment for January, and it worked wonders. I continued joyously learning to sew, completing my patch bag, and cutting out my first sewing pattern. I completed the one application I decided to spend time on this month and sent it off just as January drew to a close. I worked on my van, building the stud frames for the overhead cupboards, which are now ready to go up on the walls. Building my cupboards during this time of hibernation made me smile- I was creating spaces to store food and clothing, the very things that will keep me warm and healthy during future winters, future months of hibernation. It felt appropriate.
A few days after I wrote to you, I woke to snow, something that hasn’t happened in St Ives since I moved here. Snow makes me deliriously happy, my inner child instantly surfacing and wanting to play. This was also Finn’s first ever snow so I ushered us out of the house and into the wilds of west Cornwall as quickly as I could. I was definitely more excited about showing Finn snow than he was about experiencing it, but I think he enjoyed himself, and he certainly looked gorgeous. As I took photos and watched my little wolf snuffling about, I had to giggle at myself. Rushing out into the cold is the opposite of hibernation. But experiencing the world made new and strange, breathing the crisp cold into my soul and my cells, was the exact kind of magic my productive hibernation was all about.
Living a life more closely tied to the more-than-human world is something I want to embody, breathing and creating within its cycles, running out into the snow and celebrating nettles. Knowing when Imbolc is upon me, and consciously marking the change it heralds.
Imbolc is a Celtic word that means ‘in the belly’ or ‘in the womb’. It is a reference to the growing world of seeds and shoots, of pregnant animals, of Spring. The Earth is germinating, waiting to burst into life. Traditionally Imbolc is celebrated with a fire festival. Fire brings light to winters darkness, dispelling it, just like the coming Spring. It is a time to forge something new in the furnace of this shifting season.
To celebrate, Finn and I went to Mèn-an-Tol today, early enough that the nights cold mist was still settled over the fields. I said a prayer at the stones, asking the awakening earth to help guide my own gentle rise from hibernation.
I don’t plan to rush; the full richness of Spring comes slowly after all. But today is the turn, and so I prayed. I hope to make February as productive as January was, continuing, but rather than deep hibernation, it will be a time of gentle unfurling, a slow rise awakening with the same gentle pace and focus as the world around me. Each activity I choose will be its own snowdrop, its own crocus, its own stinging nettle. I hope to forge new growth in my life as Spring comes on.
I will write again in fortnight, and we can see how it’s going. In the meantime, paid subscribers can read on to discover the story behind February’s Photo of the Month.
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