Geese call out into the twilight.
Ice glitters like diamonds around the bare limbs of trees.
A stretch of street hustles with cars – neighbors returning home. Classical music streams out from one living room, a pianist practicing, and the enthusiastic notes float out into the February cold. Almost in competition with the geese. They honk louder.
I walk in the company of the Lunar Queen. The waxing moon has been visible since the late afternoon, catching my gaze and soothing my heart while in the video game of traffic. Serenely reigning from a light blue sky.
In four or so days, the moon will bloom full. But tonight, on the eve of Imbolc, the ancient celebration of early spring, she is still growing.
Like the seeds of our intentions for the new year. Like the seeds that are our heart’s truest and deepest longings, whispering, nudging us along, and in no rush, without urgency. Like the seeds that we must diligently and devotedly tend to … in the living earth that is a nourished nervous system, regulated and healthy in the dynamic dance between activation and stillness.
And the seeds need winter. We must rest to root deeper and therefore, rise stronger, bloom brighter with easiness and presence.
We are still in winter … and in a wonder-land of winter that is lush with aliveness. There are subtle and alluring stirrings … of what will bloom, like that moon, when spring does come.
A waxing moon right in time for Imbolc – keep gently tending the garden, be tenderly dedicated to the nurturance of dreams, of unfolding, of effervescent becoming.
I relish the metaphor as I take brisk steps, as I snuggle deeper into my faux fur coat (the lone relic from an autumn stint working in an Austin boutique where I also donned a gold tiara, which I regret to this day not buying), as I move in rhythm with that moon.
I’m cradling dreams, here. Of Body Write sessions, of Viola Spolin inspired improv classes and summer improv camps.
I’m entertaining visions, here. Of moving my writing to Substack and starting a podcast that features metaphysical movie reviews, interviews with healers.
I’m walking a familiar path and embracing the beauty of this February night as I sense the flickering light of what and where is calling me. . . .
And I do so by remembering, again and again, that I have an exuberantly intelligent body, and to descend into the oceanic depths of my all-knowing body. My body has all the answers. She is always here and always now, always on my side, no matter what my ego-mind narrates.
It is through embodied attentiveness that I sense, feel, intuit my longings, and also, can compassionately meet the edge of my fears, of visibility, of being truly seen, for that is here too on this eve of Imbolc. An ancient fear, a familiar fear, and one I can soften around, like water cascading around a jagged rock. In time, the roughness becomes smooth.
Small doable steps, my nervous system healer reminds me.
Small doable steps, the waxing moon coos.
Small doable steps, for we are still in winter and there is a current of spring lightness beneath our feet. With a nervous system recalibrated to trust ease, to feel safe in the dark and to receive the support of this energized step, this pump of the heart, this visible exhalation.
The calls of the wild geese sing out in joyous confirmation.