As January fades into February, there’s a subtle shift in the air – a quiet promise that winter won’t last forever. The days are still short, and the nights still long, but somewhere deep in the soil, life is beginning to stir. This is Imbolc, the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, and a time to celebrate the first signs of returning light and life.
For me, Imbolc feels like a pause. It’s not quite winter, but it’s not yet spring either – a liminal space where the world seems to hold its breath. Out in the garden, the earth still feels cold and unyielding, but there are tiny clues of what’s to come. Snowdrops push through the frosted ground, their delicate white blooms like tiny lanterns lighting the way. Buds swell on branches, waiting patiently for their moment. Even the birds seem to sing just a little louder, as if they too sense the turning of the season.
At this time of year, I find myself drawn to slow, reflective tasks – tidying the seed packets I’ve accumulated, sketching out rough plans for the flower beds, and gently coaxing my ranunculus corms to life in trays of damp compost. It’s a way of preparing, not just for the physical work of the growing season, but for the emotional and mental shift that spring brings. The busyness of planting, tending, and harvesting will come soon enough, but for now, there’s still space to breathe and dream.
Imbolc also reminds me of the power of small beginnings. The seeds I plant now won’t bloom for months, but the act of planting feels hopeful, a quiet declaration of faith in the future. It’s the same with the longer days – we’re still in the thick of winter, but the extra minutes of light each evening are enough to lift the heart and brighten the spirit. These small shifts, though almost imperceptible, mark the start of something much bigger.
I like to mark Imbolc in simple, personal ways. Lighting a candle on the windowsill feels just right – a tiny flame to honour the growing light. I might bake something warming, to celebrate the turning of the seasons in a tangible, nourishing way. And, of course, I’ll spend time outside, noticing the tiny changes that often go unseen. There’s something grounding about standing in the garden, hands in the soil, connecting with the earth as it begins its slow awakening.
It’s easy to rush through this time of year, hurrying towards the brightness of spring, but Imbolc invites us to pause. To notice the small things. To honour the quiet beginnings. It’s a moment to reflect on what we’re leaving behind and what we hope to grow in the months ahead. And as the first fragile shoots push through the ground, I’m reminded that every season has its purpose, and every journey starts with a small, hopeful step.
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