Thursday February 1, 2007

Imbolk


Lightly walks the maid in the sun’s first beam.
Winter’s keening grief, echoes, falters fades.
Bridget’s time is come.

Three dark clad women walked carefully through the trees to the place of working, under a full Imbolk moon. A solemn drum beat held the space as they moved on the dead and decaying leaves of last summer.

In my dream, I burrowed through the earth until I found the grave. There lay the remains of my father. I lay down next to him to wait.

Watched by him, I moved back through time to meet the seven-year-old little me, in her bright red pyjamas. A determined child, spirited, willing to cooperate but already knowing her own mind. Here she was, whole and perfect. The years spun by and I witnessed her change and grow. AS I moved with her through the years, I brought with me the essence of that whole and perfect seven-year-old.

Reluctantly leaving the body of my father, I returned to the leave strewn clearing, the drum and the dark swaying women. Opening my throat, I keened into the night, heard my grief echoed, fade and falter as I shouted the affirmation: I will no longer feel shame!”

…

The sensual scent of geranium steamed up from the bowl of hot water. Tenderly, my hands were taken and washed. I cupped my hands and poured water in a libation to the Goddess.

…

Curled on the big green chair, dressed in my soft white velvet, I listened to the dreamy voice talking of the young goddess climbing from her boat and walking up across the pebbles to the woods. Catching the story like a bouncing ball, I flew with her, like a bird above the trees. She swooped, her delight in life, a series of cheerful whoops. Like the seven-year-old, she was perfect. I reached forward and lit the tall silver candle, and affirmed my aim to hold myself in complete and unconditional self-love.