Me and my "unique" (a.k.a. cogenitally misshapen) uterus are still holed up underground, sniffing for spring. We've been holding tight, dreaming bad dreams and shivering through the long, quiet darkness. I think there is more winter ahead--but maybe not. Maybe my uterus is dreaming its way to its own quickening springtime...Today is also St. Brigit's Day, so I'll light a candle to Saint Brigit: goddess of fire, patroness of smithcraft, poetry and healing (especially midwifery). They say it only takes a single flame to keep an igloo warm.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Today is Imbolc and, as my friend Laura Weaver writes, "Imbolc (or Candlemas) marks the time when the 'seeds first stir in the ground again'—when the new life quakes and trembles and remembers itself even as we are deep in the womb of winter. Underneath a land that lies fallow is the beginning of what is to come, the calling from the future." This metaphor appeals to me as I mole my way through the winter blues towards the smell of spring. In Colorado, you can tell when spring has really arrived by the scent of pollen on the Chinook winds--smells like semen, no joke. But that time is far away still, according to my internal clock, even if the City of Angels is blooming all around me.