Silver Moonlight

Despite the scattered showers of snow and sleet, Spring is fast approaching, and February 1st marked a Celtic celebration known as Imbolc. I recall posting about this momentous occasion last year as I found it a delight to mark the impending arrival of Spring and the sunlight. First, let me give you a disclaimer, I adore Autumn and Winter. The opportunity to hibernate, to curl up in front of the fire with a good book, an endless supply of hot chocolate and the joy of trying out a plethora of new loungewear. However, even as someone who is so in awe of the darker months, the knowing of light returning always brings a skip into my step.

The night before Imbolc, we were able to witness the most incredible blood red full moon that lit up the dark skies as if showing off her lunar parade knowing the lighter nights will draw out. The wolf went and sat outside, seemingly enraptured as well and it filled my heart to wake up to blue skies but the glowing orb of moonlight still hanging in the morning sky.

Ever since I can remember I adored the moon, I have fond memories of keeping my curtains open when it shined through and found solace in the lunar light that bathed the back garden. Now I’m older and a only a little wiser, I can’t help but look back to the guidance it gave me and hope that it will provide me with the strength of the hard times ahead. However, there’s no better way to celebrate the impending season of Spring than to mark Imbolc with pancakes, wine and a cheerful spirit of awaiting skipping lambs and a fresh array of snowdrops.

This past week has been a difficult one after my Mum broke her leg and now has to be off her feet for the coming months. In a snap second, I am suddenly a carer again but being jobless and at the end of my studies, it fills me with sense of purpose than the alternative which is slipping down a black hole of rejection letters from various failed applications. However, the run of bad luck in our family feels endless and I can only hope that as a new season approaches, we will be cleansed of this curse and positive happier things will come our way.

Nothing comes for free or without hard work, so how can I go about bringing joy to Spring? I’ve been busy beavering away planning impending garden duties in the hope of bringing in more colour and a vast array of vegetables and fruit. I can’t wait to feel the freshly cut grass beneath my feet, glass of prosecco in hand and a snoozing wolf under the stars. I’m also hoping to embrace my artistic skills and have a go at some hobbies including calligraphy and painting. To sum it up, I’m finding a way in which to keep busy whilst life feels a little lost and a little difficult. I choose to look at this break in life and see it as a reward for the pain and sorrow we have faced over recent years, and that some spiritual force is allowing me to rest and find time to heal in the quietness of my diary and commitments.

The other day I was driving and find it the best time for my mind to wander. For some reason I considered the thought of what I would do if granted one wish. There was only one true answer that I could find and that was to wish for the chance to hold my Dads hand again. It pains me so much being reminded that there may be years ahead without him, it even feels surreal and like a nightmare that I’m yet to wake from. Death isn’t a straight path, it is a long and winding road through treacherous ground and ever changing climates that I feel no amount of support can brace a person for the intense rollercoaster they are yet to face. Instead, I try to choose to remember my Dads wise words of taking everything just one step at a time, and avoiding the angry souls in this world to focus on what we find brings us joy and hope. Whilst, I may never physically hold his hand again, my wish is almost complete in remembering his voice, and feeling the spiritual presence of his support in the lovely little robins that seem to follow us around. Somehow, I know he is always there. And he’s helping me embrace a new season of change in myself.

 

 

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katiebagshawe

Writings. Wolfmother.

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