We all wax and wane, like celestial bodies, in clarity.
Brilliant in our humanity, an infinity of gods and goddesses stumbling toward the light.
Writing stories, living in the shadows of stories, becoming our own stories.
Imbolg is the season of welcoming Spring, banishing Winter. the green of the pines, heavy with the weight of snow. the sun setting after I leave the office – not before. the final retreat of the holiday lights. Gardening catalogs begin to arrive. Imbolg is as the darkest part of the night – the bit just before dawn, and somewhat fearsome.
Still time to bank the fire, stay warm inside, waiting for the return of Lucifer.
He always seems to turn up, eventually.