The True Spirit of Imbolc - for me, at least
Author: Zander Bruce Imbolc has always been something of a mystery to me. I live in a country where there are clearly two seasons, both of which last for exactly two months. The third season is rain. This means that generally 5 of my Sabbats are spent either outdoors anticipating rain or indoors delighting in the lack of it. (I love it here and pay taxes, so I get to say that.) So there's never any wonderful romantic notion of flowers and shoots poking through the frosty undergrowth. As for the inner aspect of Imbolc, I always feel it to be merely a stop-gap on the way to Beltane when I can have some fun with a few thousand other mad folk up the hill and partake in a theatrical ritual that is unparalleled in my experience. I have just never been able to get excited about Imbolc as a festival.
I sincerely hope that's changing. Just now, I find myself more than a little introspective as well as retrospective -- perhaps this year especially so, given that it's my 31st birthday today and I'm planning an Imbolc ritual with my workshop moot group next weekend. It will be the fifth anniversary of the first open group ritual we held and several members who attended then will be with us. Also, I have just returned to the city that I fell in love with 10 years ago and which, like an old roving lover, I have returned to with flowers in hand and a rakish grin on my face.
I always feel at this time of year, as we leave the darkness and cold behind, somehow almost genetically relieved that we've made it through another winter. I imagine how differently it all could have been if the sun hadn't been called back. I'm remembering the year and a half of my life that I foolishly allowed myself to dwell in deep unhappiness and hermitage.
Never again. As Imbolc approaches, let me be heard. Let them all know it. My Gods, my friends, my lovers, my enemies, my family, my followers, my wards and my critics - let them pay heed to this pledge. Never again will I waste my time and my energy in complacency and despondency. I reclaim my existence with renewed vigor and passion, knowing that I never lost it - I had merely packed it away.
My sense of self has returned, my role as a mentor has been renewed, my debauched man-whoring has flourished. Inside me, I can feel the light returning and the growth beginning again - not to repeat a cycle, but to re-engage it, to spur it on further than before and seek my wyrd.
I look around to see my environment, inhaling the sweet smell of change and burgeoning life. I see same-sex couples celebrating their legally recognized partnerships on morning television. I see that while I've been away from my beloved city, the university chaplaincy has commissioned a wonderful labyrinth which invites members of all faiths (specifically including my own) to walk it. I see a workforce of colleagues where all the gay men are out and proud.
I never saw Imbolc as being a festival of giving thanks, but this year it is. I'm probably most thankful for one thing. That Pat Robertson was right. There will be many reading this who are either unaware of who Pat Robertson is or the circumstances to which I am referring. To quickly inform, Pat Robertson is an evangelical Christian and CBN broadcaster. Back in 1999, he was entering into a deal with the Bank of Scotland to set up a venture that would see them make an inroad into the US banking market. Now, Marion (his real first name - though let's face it, Pat is supposed to be more butch?) had made a few bad remarks (taken completely out of context of course!) about women, Jews, Asians and of course - homosexuals.
So in Scotland, a massive campaign was launched. Within a matter of weeks, the Bank had bowed to pressure from gay lobbying groups (I was one of those protesting outside the Bank's HQ and it was like an extra Pride that day) as well as councils, charities and the press. The deal was off. Speaking afterward, Marion had decried Scotland as a "dark, pagan land". My favorite quote - which was to become featured on t-shirts, badges and websites everywhere was, "In Scotland, you can't believe how strong the homosexuals are". Wonderful.
Sometimes we seasoned campaigners get tired, lonely and disheartened. We forget how important the services we give to our communities are. We lose sight of those who benefit from them, often because we help them move on to explore new grounds whilst we continue to turn up to meetings and to volunteer. Also, we are often left not knowing what we want or need for ourselves. Rather than withdrawing, we need to count the victories. Rather than seeing the empty seats, we need to envision the good works and progress that those we have trained and supported are now a part of. Then we need to remember how to enjoy the fruits of our own labors. Take lovers, walk beaches, learn new skills, get stoned occasionally.
I will be applying for a voluntary position with a long-standing and reputable Pagan organization, a notion that both excites and terrifies me, perhaps due to my Peter Pan complex. My group and I are looking forward to launching not only a new season of workshops locally but also a new version of our old free publication. I have a new job in which I am challenged to learn something new every day. I have so much energy and I almost feel as if I am waiting for the rest of the planet to catch up with me so we can get moving.
So Imbolc for me this year is renewal, thanksgiving and community. I just realized something. I started today on a downer - alone for my birthday, having to work overtime and another year older whilst being no more wise. Now I'm heading to bed with a smile on my face and my head full of plans, ideas and most importantly, hope.
A very blessed Imbolc, everybody |
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