Imbolc : What’s emerging beneath the frost?

We made it. January, that marathon of Mondays disguised as a month, is finally behind us. If it felt like you were trapped in an endless loop of grey skies and unwashed socks, you weren’t alone. But here we are, teetering on the edge of February, squinting for signs of spring and glued to the weather forecast for signs of more frost.

Imbolc, nestled between winter’s chill and spring’s promise, reminds me of the snooze button on an alarm clock — it doesn’t launch you into action but it does give you a gentle nudge in the right direction. The days are stretching their legs, the frost is starting to lose its grip, and if you squint hard enough, you might just see a snowdrop poking through the soil, muttering, “Is it safe yet?”

I, for one, am thankful that our resident Songthrush is already singing at the top of his voice right outside my office window most mornings – spring is definitely on the horizon, but we have time. We can afford to hit the snooze button again!

Imbolc

Traditionally, Imbolc is a celebration of Brigid, the goddess of poetry, healing, and midwifery (a multitasker if ever there was one). It’s a time for lighting candles and warming yourself, both literally and metaphorically. A time to notice any small beginnings: a new idea, a fresh intention, or just the fact that the sun is still hanging about at tea time.

Here’s how I usually mark Imbolc, though this year looks a little different as I’m nursing my foot and wielding crutches instead of candles:

1. I light a few candles. Nothing fancy, just a single flame here and there to brighten the evening. I sit with them for a while, letting the glow remind me that winter doesn’t last forever, even if January feels like it’s dragging on just to spite me.
2. I clear something out. Usually, it’s a drawer that’s been bothering me for months or the ‘miscellaneous pile’ on my office desk. There’s something about sorting through the chaos that makes it feel like I’ve got a fresh page to write on. This year, I’ll be clearing my calendar instead of clutter — thanks to surgery, my priorities will be strictly rest and recovery this weekend.
3. I normally head outdoors. Even if it’s Baltic out there, I’ll layer up and hunt for snowdrops or listen for birds testing out their spring tunes. This year, I’ll settle for peeking out the window with a cuppa, cheering on the bulbs I planted in the autumn, and watching the birds devour the nuts at the feeders.
4. I cook something warming. A bubbling pot of soup or a banana and walnut loaf fresh from the oven usually does the trick. It’s less about the food and more about the ritual of making it. This year, I might stick with one-pot wonders—easy to manage while I’m hobbling around the kitchen.
5. I reflect. Imbolc always feels like a time to think about what’s quietly waking up in my life, alongside what’s budding in the garden. This year, I’ll likely be reflecting on how to avoid tripping up the stairs with my crutches, but the sentiment’s the same.

Even with my plans looking a bit different this year, I’ll still be celebrating in my own small way— Imbolc is after all about the spirit of the thing, not the size of the effort.