As I reluctantly pack up the Imbolc ceremonial decorations this year (early August in the Southern Hemisphere where I am), I am conscious that this was perhaps the last Imbolc that I will celebrate here in this place, and even in the way as I have done for decades. As my partner and I age, and need to move to smaller accommodations, I am not sure what will come forward with me, what there will be a place for – the large round altar/table, the many Goddess images?

As I roll up the ribbons, put the sacred items back in their place on the shelves, – the bell and dorje, the small earthen mother Goddess figurine, the Artemis arrow, and so much more, I think of all the individual beauty on the planet that has ever been, and the passing of it, as is the nature of being, and I mourn the infinite loss. Imbolc is a celebration of each being’s unique beauty and particular creativity, and yet it passes – sometimes prematurely, sometimes having fulfilled its promise and purpose.

Indeed I attended a funeral today (online) of my stepsister, one who had been about my age, and one with whom I had gone to country dances as a teenager. There were many photos of her as the funeral service began, and I felt the passing of this particular beauty, this young one whom she was – as we all are, and her aging, and then her time of ill health before passing. The other side of Imbolc and its celebration of the Young One, emergence of the new beautiful one as the light waxes, is Lammas the celebration of the Old One, the dissolving of the individual self, back into the Larger Self from whence we come, as the dark waxes.

I re-light the Flame of Brigid on the altar one last time, before packing up the clay pot which holds it; and also I light the centre candle, and the two remaining candles for the individual selves that were present. We had each affirmed that we were tenders of the flame, and dedicated ourselves to tending our particular small flame of self, the unique promise of life and creativity that we are. 

The Sun was now setting over my local holy Mountain, and I could see the sky’s beautiful colours through the large window; it is the Mountain that was in my eyes when I was a toddler … and here I am in this later stage of my life, gazing at it again. Yet because we dwell  upon a round Planet who is actually doing the turning, I may simply turn also, to face the awesome sentient dark and await the dawn.