Imbolc.

This piece came from a university writing prompt, which asked us to research the concept of Imbolc, and write something that connected us to it. Luckily, for me, I already knew about the main Celtic festivals, and drew on my experience as a LARPer in a Celtic setting to place myself in that world. Here is what I wrote.

Imbolc.

Sap rising. The bleating of the new lambs a clarion call to watchers whose vigil has lapsed over the long dark, and a proclamation that now is a time for feasting the body, and purging the home. Let the blankets and floor-coverings be shaken, and let the pale blossoming of barbed blackthorn bring to mind the cream and yellow of the first milk and butter of the year. Run your hands through the wool of those beasts, and feel their grease soften your skin after hardening body and soul from the cold. This is Imbolc.

Rain lashing. Let the people hang Brigid’s sign above their doors, and in the roof-rafters, that the relentless rains of the turning seasons do not wash us away. Counsel them to hang their cloaks outside their doors, and let those same rains bless you with good luck for the coming months. Have them lay a pallet out on the floor, and deck it with blankets and Spring flowers, that the goddess might rest while in your home. Let them travel to holy wells, and mountain springs, and bends in the slow wandering rivers where Brigid listens to petitioners who remember the old sacred places. Look at the water through a tunnel made by your hands and see the future that Brigid has already glimpsed for you. This is Imbolc.

Wind howling. Let men with the fronts of their heads shaved nod in approval as great boards of food are laid out. Let us feast on meat, and barley, herbs gathered from riverbank and glade, and on cheeses long kept in store over the winter, and let our bellies grow fat, and full, and content. Have the farmers seek out their sequestered seeds, and plant them deep, that this may all happen again, in its season. This is Imbolc.