Tomorrow, a sideways sickle will hang in the winter sky like a smile, like a chalice.
It’s the first sliver of moonlight after the dark moon; The Priestess Moon, the Imbolc of the month.
Under this moon, I will creep through the winter leaves, wet with rain, and climb to a favorite mossy rock shrouded in dripping rhododendrons, twisted and curved into a bower.
The underground spring set loose by the recent rains will gurgle nearby, harmonizing with the rush of the big creek below.
I will set a small tea light on the rock but wait to light it. I want to be only with that fresh light of the moon for a while.
Then I will strike the wooden match, hold it to the wick, and wonder how long it will last in the rain.
Imbolc is a gamble, after all.
Survival, even of a candle flame, is not guaranteed on a planet comprised ultimately of weather and elements.
That’s why I’ll be out in the rain, though my hearth is much nicer.
And why I’ll be up in the woods, though I know that being too wet for too long out in these temperatures will have consequences.
Because I want to feel Imbolc. I want to remember that I am wild, elemental; at least partially.
I’m also part regular-modern-person, watching TV and trying not to eat too many carbs while my broken heart heals; tracking Amazon orders and wondering what I should post on Instagram.
Letting myself be both is important to me and to my magic/creativity.
Too long with Netflix, I lose the ability to listen to the more subtle whisperings of Nature and the deep hum of the magical human.
Too long in the woods and I forget how to work a computer or pay bills.
So under the Priestess moon, I will leave my warm hearth scented with spruce and clove, leave whatever show I’m binging or book I’m wolfing down, and go get a little uncomfortable for the sake of balance.
I’ll leave my cozy couch to watch a vulnerable little candle flame flicker and fight in the rain, as my own circulation flickers and fights to keep me warm.
But not before I set soup and tea on the stove to warm, greeting me upon my return.
Not before I stoke the woodstove and turn down the air so it’s a golden mass of heat when I come in from the damp.
After being out under that moon, after feeling the importance of my Imbolc vows deepen as I comprehend the similarity of their tenderness and the flickering candle, I will walk back to my hearth with pink cheeks and roaring chi.
Roaring. Chi.
That’s when my lifeforce is strong, when I realize that it’s not promised, not guaranteed.
Comfort is not guaranteed, not a birthright.
Neither is survival.
The chipmunk doesn’t put her hands on her hips as the hawk speeds down at her from the sky and demand what the actual fuck; inconvenienced.
The bears don’t roll their eyes when the temperatures plummet and groan this is bullshit; inconvenienced.
Instead, they get busy surviving.
And as a result, their chi burns bright; they are strong, clever, resilient, and utterly alive.
When my chi roars, my channel flows, my “temple” is sturdy and stable, and I can do the work of Priestess archetype; I feel strong, clever, resilient, and utterly alive; not inconvenienced.
But when I take my comforts for granted, when I think I’m entitled to some experience or another, when I think my future is promised, my chi is bullshit, thready.
This is a discipline and a devotion for me — to wonder about, notice, then replicate ways to enliven my lifeforce.
And to discern inconvenience from life-threatening or true suffering.
At Imbolc, and under the Priestess moon, my lifeforce stirs and wants enlivening.
And so, enlivening it shall have.
To feel it roar, alive and well, is a privilege, an Imbolc blessing.
love and chi,
xo
kv
