Sacred Rites Mystery School

Dorrie Joy

Dark moon of Imbolc
The wind howls like a wolf
Damp mist and light rain
Turned the dawn grey
Snowdrops are still hiding
I find her in the Ivy
Child of evergreen
Bright eyes that see all things
Tight as a bud in a dreaming womb
Holding the promise
Of what may bloom
In smooth and wild edges
If you have lost your energy and purpose
Find and ask your eleven year old self
Remember what you loved
What has always been precious
Before heartbreak and injustice
Became cynicism or numbness
Our lives are maps of our longing
But what were we following?
Imbolc comes to remind us
That all can be renewed
Brigid, our Celtic Mother Saint
Protects all innocence
Midwife, healer, shepherdess
Truth is wrought
Creativity is forged
Between her hammer and anvil
She was wisdom and muscle
Sweet water of compassion
From the wellspring to the ocean
Cyclical, maiden, mother,
crone
We sing and make small dolls of her
To make offerings to the land
In these ancient traditions
Is to nourish all that needs tending within us
Beneath winters cloak
That hangs heavy, I know
The songs of springtime
Of pure inspiration
Are held in the child self
Within each one of us
Ask what they would like for dinner
Give them a pen and paper
Ask them what they think of your job
And what they’d love to do afterwards
Making moments, alive on our Earth
Pour milk onto the winter ground
To bless all that is newborn
And feed the faith and courage
To walk through this year
True to the gifts we were born with
Each of us
No soul is forgotten
None has more value over another
See yourself not through the lens of our culture
But as a vessel of dreams
Upon fertile soil
Light a candle and remember
Your smile when you were small
And the potential of fulfilment
That lives within us all