Stirrings

My small garden looks so ragged, so in need of love. But I tell myself it is as it is supposed to be at this time of year. So I keep to putting things on the compost heap for later, pay my respects to the garden spirits at my altar under the thorn tree and bide my time, as the garden spirits tell me to. Spring is stirring slowly but, again, I tell myself to take each day as it comes, as a blessing in rain or sunshine, in wind or calm stillness : these are the elements of our being and we must live them as they come to us just as we must live with both happiness and sadness, as I do.

Imbolc

So Imbolc has come and gone. The candle I lit burnt down. These cold days with blue skies seem so pure and fresh. So like my feeling for Brigit. So like the pure whiteness of snow and of snowdrops. So clear like a teardrop on my cheek in the cold wind.

Another year grows. My eyes open to another Spring awaiting its time. 

I wait too, but must remember that the moment is Now. That is all there ever is.