I live in the city. The journey through the seasons isn’t always obvious here - not unless you know where to look. It’s in the cracks between paving stones, in the way bare branches catch the light, in the quiet persistence of green things growing against all odds - gardens and pockets of resistance. But this year, the darkness has felt profound. I have felt it settle into my bones, pressing down in a way I don’t remember from other winters. Perhaps it's my age. Perhaps it's the knowledge that I have limited time (as do we all), and so, more than ever, I find myself longing and straining toward the light.
Solstice came, and with it, warmth. Not in the sun, but in people. For the first time since we moved, we opened our house, and it was riotous - many friends and family came, and worked the magic of community. We seemed to finish the day with more food than we started. There were meaningful connections - family and tribe, both given and chosen. The dark days were marked by laughter, shared meals, the comfort of familiar voices, and a reaffirmation of connections we make too rarely. A reminder that even in the longest night, we find ways to kindle brightness, and that in the times of least activity we find nourishment in the connections with those we hold dearest.
Then the light began to return, creeping in at the edges of morning. I saw it in the mist rising from the fields as I walked the dogs, in their sheer delight at visiting some new place with all the smells and sniffing that go with it. The land, though still cold, was stirring. And yet, within me, something else was shifting. I find myself restless once again - pushing back against sleep and against sleepwalking through days.
Some (20 or more) years ago, I met with a potential teacher. At the time it seemed exciting and I was full of the self-importance and glamour of my TDN days. I'd read her book, and she invited me to learn with her. When the time came, I wasn't brave enough to take the step and I ducked out. She wasn't impressed with me, and neither was I. Well, I learned that she died recently. Although I never intended on following up the connection (too much time had passed), the news landed like a stone in deep water, sending ripples I didn't expect. It pulled me inward, back into books, searching for threads of wisdom in old words, turning again to British mystery traditions. Looking for a pulse. Looking for something that might answer the unspoken question. And so now I find myself writing. Setting intention. Searching for a pulse.
Finally (FINALLY!), Imbolc is here. The first hints of spring, the threshold between stillness and movement. The question remains: what have I carried through the dark, and what will I take forward into the light?